


Filled to Capacity

by ScarlettsLetters



Series: Skeleton Key [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alien Technology, Anal Gaping, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Bondage, Dom Steve Rogers, Dubious Consent, Fucking Machines, Gags, Hardcore, Large insertions, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Multiple Penetration, Nipple Clamps, Nipple Play, Oral Sex, Other, Overstimulation, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Predicament Bondage, Stony - Freeform, Tentacle Monsters, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Wants This, Urethral Play, Vacuum Pumping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-04-05
Packaged: 2019-03-22 15:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13766883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScarlettsLetters/pseuds/ScarlettsLetters
Summary: On a Friday night, Tony Stark would rather stay in with his latest secret project: coming his brains out, being fucked by Chitauri  technology.





	1. Poking the Happy Fun Ball

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony may seem like he doesn't want it. But the Chitauri artifact is psychotropic: it responds to what a subject desires.

Clint leans against the counter, drumming his fingers against the sterile glass. Blond brows crumple in disbelief, indenting lines across his forehead.

“Come _on_ , you can’t spend all night holed up in your lab again.”

Tony glances up from the projection pad, twisting a cyan circle two degrees left. The corresponding readings spike slightly and he frowns.

Bombarding the sphere with electromagnetism ought to be popping whatever seals hold it in a sphere. Other than the corresponding rumble FRIDAY measures around the artifact, it stays inert.

Troubling, but he never expected this to be easy. Chinese finger-puzzle trap difficulty, maybe, but actual challenges are few and far between.

Clint huffs. “Are you even listening?”

He ducks at a paper airplane tossed at his face and it sails behind him, harmlessly shot down by a floating orb.

Incinerated scraps float to the ground, ash sprinkled on the ground.

“Jesus!” Clint stiffens, mincing back five steps and throwing Tony an offended look. “What the hell, Stark? You could’ve ignited my hair gel with that freaking marble.”

“I’ve got work to do, Barton. Another time.”

Tony recalibrates the mag pulses with a sweep of his finger. _Ten percent increase ought to do it_. The watch buzzes on his wrist, a quiet reminder for the approaching appointment.

So much for the persuasive sell. Clint pats down his jeans to make sure nothing smoulders back there, and he glares at the offending marble orbiting just outside arm’s reach.

“Steve and Nat will be there,” he says.

“Feel free to send my regards.”

Tony presses the heart of the dial and awaits the feedback readings from two dozen sensors in the lab six storeys underground. A necessary precaution when dealing with anything alien.

The archer hooks his fingers into his back pocket, feeling for the batarang hidden in his wallet. “Yeah, you said that the last three Fridays in a row. Starting to think you’ve got something hidden in your ivory tower, you know.”

“Leave MOLLY alone.” Tony doesn’t look up.

“MOLLY?”

“Mobile orbiting life-lock initiative.” Molly. Animate defense on the go, the marble circles around the loitering archer in forever altered orbits.

“Man, you need a life. What’s with you naming all your systems after girls?” Clint doesn’t quite suppress a snort.

He’d rather not be having this conversation right now. The sooner Barton gets out of his hair, the better.

His eyes are fixed on the graphs glimmering on the horizontal tableau. Turns out he found just the right combination to unlock something and little pleases him more than being right.

“At least I remember the names of mine.”

An attempt to disguise a choked splutter by coughing only goes so far. “Below the belt, Stark. Seriously, what’s so damn important you can’t bother seeing your friends once in a while?”

“Work.”

He doesn’t need this interruption right now. Tony cleared out the executive floor two hours ago and warned the security personnel to bother him with nothing short of alien invasion. His network of satellites ought to give at least twenty minutes of advanced warning, and anything else is Strange’s problem.

“ _Tony_.” Clint steps up into his face, the distorted gradients and scales washed over his burgundy shirt and dark-wash jeans. Snapping his fingers pulls Tony’s gaze away from the critical data piling up.

A frown settles onto Tony’s face, his eyes narrowed in a cold focus that, under different circumstances, tends to send personal assistants and senior technical program managers fleeing to their workstations. Anywhere but under his mercurial, focused attention.

“I’ve made it terribly clear I have important work to do. Do we have a mission I somehow missed?”

“Well, no.”

“Or was the debrief with Director Fury moved up and I somehow failed to notice a helicarrier hovering overhead?” Tony’s supply of fucks to give, ever short in supply, dwindles to the point of trace elements.

Why on earth would the sphere show neodymium plating? Unless...  _Magnets_. 

One bobbing and dipping orange line measures the intense spike in temperature around the spheroid, another the stabilization of background radiation a good four ticks higher than anticipated. Still within measurable parameters, which all translates to something interesting happening, right now.

A wave of his hand and FRIDAY could easily display the results in wide detail, but he really can’t have Clint and his big mouth reporting back half-truths to his Avenger colleagues. Bruce, mostly. He isn’t sure anyone else would have a clue.

“Whoa, whoa, nice Molly. Just trying to get your boss to chill out with us once in a while,” Clint says.

Molly spins around once more and takes on an ugly orange glow. Clint lifts both his hands in a wordless surrender while the laser charge builds. She can deliver a lethal blast, though the current setting unleashes shocks on par with a Taser. 

“Good night. Say hi to Rhodes if he bothers dropping by,” Tony says.

With that, he gestures at the door. Either the archer goes on his own feet or he’ll end up sucked into the elevator and blown out to the street. Tony hasn’t had much time to test that particular mod.

A menacing buzz sends Barton scrambling for the doors, strafed by luminous vermillion and oscillating turquoise lines.

“Fine!” His shout the sensors dampen, rumbling to life to depress the volume to something better suited to a lab. “I’ll be back, Stark. You won’t go to the party, party’s going to come to you!”

Two minutes of blessed silence pass as Tony scans the readouts and Clint’s departing presence to ground level.

“FRIDAY, initiate security lockdown sixteen,” he says. The watch buzzes again. Time to get the party started.

As he descends to the lab, the monitoring systems continuously update him on the sphere. Its fluid structure is hardly unusual, typical for most Chitauri tech, but other elements prove fascinating.

Tony has so many questions. How can the artifact contain a greater volume without some kind of apparent force field? Nothing indicates a field of force, but the magnetic presence gives him an idea. How can it weigh so much when hollow, why is it rolled up tight, and resistant to damn near everything he bombarded it with?

Doors sweep open for him, admitting him to the hermetically sealed forechamber. He holds his arms out as three scans race over him to confirm his identity and banish any bacteria or unwanted visitors riding shotgun into a sterile area.

A puff of spray that smells of Pepper’s favourite perfume drifts over him, aerosol droplets landing on his jacket.

“Cleansing complete,” Friday announces in her warm, bright tone. “Please proceed, Mr. Stark.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

He shrugs off the jacket, slinging it on a peg on the wall. A lab coat might be appropriate, but not for tonight. Two taps of his finger on the temple of his glasses expand their field, wrapping protective, coated lenses.

“Safety protocols are in place, and the background radiation resumed safe levels,” Friday says. Her constant stream of chatter gets annoying, but not when he stares at the beautiful spherical artifact sitting on a pedestal behind layers of glass.

When he approaches, he swears the thing wobbles. Protrusions raised in ridges on the surface offer a tantalizing hint of faint blue light running underneath. Possible hint of an energy core.

The arc reactor in his chest flickers through his shirt, and he presses his hand atop the rigid rim.

“Friday, any signs of what that contains?”

“Possibly. Unidentified matter composition, the metal is not clear. The current review of my databases will not be complete for another twenty-one minutes. Would you like a cup of coffee while you wait?”

Twenty-one minutes of sitting around, waiting for a possible match on the chemical composition. 

“Keep working at it, and no coffee. I’m going to take a look myself.”

“Inadvisable sir. The arms dealer was _clear_ on the instability of the sphere--”

He waves off the protest. “Some hack trying to sell junk they found in New York failed to take the necessary precautions. I’ve got this.”

The sphere rattles again and the ridges lift in ragged crenellations as he draws nearer. His suit is only a few gestures away, the ongoing security scans awaiting the least sign of danger. For all Friday murmurs her disapproval in his ear, his excitement spurs him to guide a pair of metal pincers into motion.

The two robotic arms oblige him by swinging down from the ceiling to cradle the metallic ball in their grasp.

His silent observation lasts ten seconds.

Tony frowns as the arm on the left wobbles, pulled to the tabletop. Given they could lift four metric tons each, any fluctuation in hydraulic strength concerns him. However, he has a backup for that.

He ignores the first sign to halt, shifting to a magnetic levitation field as the backup. Already the second arm squeals, unable to compensate for the burden of the sphere.

“Friday, confirm diameter of the Chitauri artifact?”

“Eleven inches.”

“Compare against previous diameter?” He frowns as the surface darkens, tarnished under a shadow diminishing the luster. Not uncommon; he’s seen similar reactions before.

Chitauri tech is nothing if not volatile.

“Nine point three inches.”

“So it’s definitely expanding.” He hears the humming magnets engage, and slides his finger along the reinforced glass to boost their power.

His second mistake won’t be overlooked like the prior wobble. Alien neodymium and the embedded magnets squabble like teenagers over chores, and the sphere wobbles again.

“Diameter five inches,” Friday bleats, her warning cut off when the artifact casts off its outer layers at supersonic speeds.

Bulletproof glass cracks where shards impact the panes at high velocity. Antigrav fields divert the worst shrapnel away, but the shockwave knocks Tony on his ass.

“What the fuck was that?” Words no one should say in the lab.

He stares at the inner core, a vibrant ultraviolet mass floating in midair. Scans knocked offline by the blast slowly come online, measuring the streaming matter that swerves around, releasing long, nebulous tendrils.

His glasses skitter into the corner.

“FRIDAY, status!”

“Inconclusive, Mr. Stark. Possibly dark matter, but you wouldn’t be seeing it if that’s true. It is highly reactive. Conducting assessment to determine primary source of volatility. I advise you stay calm for best results.”

He swears again, crab walking until he can get his feet under him. His expensive Italian trousers slide and tear under his heel, something to add insult to injured ego.

“Find me an answer.” Tony squints into the glow, watching the amorphous mass coil and congeal. “It’s acting like a nebula. Was that a tiny nova?”

“Energy levels would…” Friday cuts out and bubbles back in again. “A minor one, but how would that be possible?”

He starts to stand when the first of the bruised violet tendrils explode from the main mass. Tony is fast, but not that quick. Hell, _Steve_ might not even dodge the lashing wisp that reaches for him.

The weirdest sensation, cool and airy, brushes over his shirt. Tony recoils, twisting to run, and the tendril latches around his wrist.

Around his watch, to be more precise. He snarls as the emerging nanotech plates forming the gauntlet in signature cherry red come to a grinding halt where the dark energy sweeps over them. Tiny machines scatter, revealing holes in the forming web work.

“No, come on. Friday, reinforcements here!”

“Told... Proto… six… proceed…” Her broken, fragmentary answers fade out in the weakening hum, and Tony makes a run for the doors.

Another pair of tendrils burst out of the mass and anchor above and below his knee, yanking his right leg out. He breaks the fall by trying to spin, but the weird gossamer appendages exert their inescapable drag, pulling him nearer.

The thing looks like a nebula and acts like a malevolent black hole or those undersea anemones that snatch particles and stuff them into gaping maws.

He swears he’ll buy the BBC and fire every last person on the _Blue Planet_ series payroll for introducing him to those uncomfortable analogies. The damn anemone arms are venomous, aren’t they?

Pepper pouted for the fate of the stunned shrimps, but Tony feels exactly the same. He tries to conjure the will to fight, but more of those thin tendrils are weaving up his forearm to the elbow in an iridescent vambrace.

They exude some kind of neurotoxin, maybe. Lassitude and a drunken looseness follow as he skids over the tiles, still trying to plant his heel down for some kind of traction.

That simply won’t do. The Chitauri void braids two more lengthy appendages together and smacks a dusty strand against his thigh hard enough to knock Tony right back.

His head should rightly hit the tiles. Maybe it has and he failed to register the impact through the haze settled on his nervous system, leaving him torpid and weightless in a spreading warmth.

“ _Ungh_.” Impact on something still knocks the wind out of him.

The creature warps a bubble of gravity to cushion his head thrown back by slipping, though the rest of his body below his arched sternum and drawn shoulders are unsupported beyond the domed surface.

Not comfortable, but not terrible either, this free floating.

Irresistible pressure yanks his legs apart, spreading them far enough to leave the seam of his trousers fully exposed. He manages to bend his knee back, buckling in the aborted fall. The better to kick, like he might turn himself over.

None of that, apparently. Thin bands crawl up his ankle and start wrapping at speed past his thigh and under his calf, in effect tying his folded leg in place. The other stretches out until tendons crackle in pain.

“FRIDAY, emergency!” he shouts, but to no avail. No response.

He tries to raise his head from the bubble to get a view. All those strands amount to probably fifteen by now, the biggest snapping around his leg and fighting with his flailing arm.

Still back bent, he no longer sees the watch under the tendrils, and whatever nanites crawl around fail to throw off the energy-infused bindings that hold him fast.

If this thing feasts on energy, only one place it means to go. His eyes widen in fear and rage as the glowing blue triangle throbs, emitting steady energy under his shirt.

Tony Stark, dead by Chitauri artifact, years after attack on New York. That will be his headstone and the headlines to shift thousands of _Bulletins_ and _Daily Bugles_.

Fuck his life. Fuck his life indeed.

Eight feet away, the contracting void forms a tighter violet nexus radiating those cosmic strands, shot by motes of light and dark, matte dust that swallows up all the illumination in proximity. It pauses.

He tries one last time to grab the black ribbon crossing his chest, chattering when his fingers seem to go numb at the contact.

“Forget it,” Tony says. “You can take me, but they’ll come--”

Another tremor racing through the mobile inkstain jostles him, slamming him back against the gravity bubble. He arches over it, his instinctive efforts to pull his knees up to protect his stomach firmly resisted.

Another thicker streamer bursts out from the violet core, curving around to strike his face. Tony sucks in an involuntary breath and gags when the semi-corporeal substance fills his mouth.

He bites, but the inexorable pressure shoves his jaws apart. Whatever bite strength he possesses is a fraction to the force exerted against him, or he’s simply too weakened by the contact poison absorbed through his skin.

Come to think, his tongue tingles and wetness coats his stretching lips, like a very fine lip gloss. Not that he’d know. Never raided Pepper’s cosmetics except for the one stag party best not to remember.

More of the gelatinous presence keeps his tongue flat despite his efforts to spit it out. The volume forms something of a tube, pushing over the ridges of his hard palate, and diving straight for his throat.

Tony panics. He coughs and chokes on the firming shaft shoving into his esophagus, treating the smooth clenching muscles like autumn leaves kicked before a boot.

Tears stream down from his eyes as he gags, useless resistance mounted as a last-ditch effort. Even that is weakened by the numbing compound. Some small part of his mind still functioning reckons it could be a relaxant.

Then he’s well and truly fucked, if so.

The Chitauri monster satisfies itself by shoving the tendril down the entrance to the warm, gripping muscle. Tony’s throat bulges at the violation, his face reddening from the lack of oxygen.

He teeters on the edge of asphyxiation, starbursts swarming over his vision, slack and convulsing while more of the tendrils rip away the designer pants from his lower body.

So much for the arc reactor theory.

Blue eyes roll, rimmed in white, at the cool air playing over his thighs and his groin. Silk boxers prevent him from enduring the skin to skin contact of the tendrils, but more march along to tear and shred the material. 

Those tendrils exude a curious warmth against his bare flesh, especially when the chafing silk flutters away in ragged tatters. When the last scrap hits the floor, the expanse of his limp cock and balls are fully on display.

Anyone watching might learn Tony Stark waxes. His hairless testicles and limp shaft don’t so much as stir, contracted towards his body by the cold, by mute terror.

Featherlight brushes advance across his upper thighs into the bowl of his hips, sliding around in slow circles. It nearly tickles, but he has to contend with the pillaging of his mouth. Every so often the fat shaft drags back to his teeth, letting him draw in gasping breaths. It shoves back in and leaves saliva drooling down his chin, leaking out the corners of his mouth.

Whatever scientific reasoning remains still can’t figure out what this thing wants with him, other than the blatantly obvious intent to violate his body.

Tony twitches again, his hole contracting. Eyes shut tightly when he tries to even feel whether the watch remains or if that somehow ended up rusted away into flakes and dust.

More warmth crawls up his chest, and the tendrils gathered over his pectoral muscles easily slither past the dress shirt. They weave under the placket, dusting around in serpentine meanders.

He’ll never, never laugh at that poor brine shrimp again. If he survives, he will build an aquarium the likes of which will make Namor piss his onesie in jealousy.

When he escapes. No if. Inevitably he will get free.

Tony yelps, the sound muffled. One of the wandering ribbons of energy finds his nipple. He cries out again when three more teasing fronds seem to center around the areola and shock him, or freeze him with subarctic cold, he can’t really tell the difference.

The tendril violating his mouth chooses that moment to stuff two inches down his throat, cutting off all noise. Vibrations run up and down its length, carrying into the being itself. Evidently satisfied, the other questing tendrils zero in on the other contracted nub, for the sensation is twinned again.

He bucks in suspended animation, horrified by the discomfort and the vague stirrings of something between his legs. His cock can’t be hardening by this, _it can’t._

The Chitauri patiently strokes and flicks the thinnest wisps over his nipples, wrapping like thread around the bases. Something stings again, and he can barely see past the appendage pumping into his mouth to notice.

Holes burnt into the shirt dissolve the fine cotton, revealing the stiff red peaks and surrounding puffy skin. One tube feels like it melts over the top, semi-transparent, and the gravitational pull instantly stretches the captive point an inch from his body.

Doing this to his lovers always sends a thrill to him, but being the recipient leaves him shaking in lust and overwrought emotion he can’t name. The other nipple receives the same treatment and he tries to shake them off, to no avail. His hips swivel in the very limited range of motion, gyrating in futility.

A bad idea, really. For motion attracts predators, and the Chitauri void counts as one of those. He goes stiff and still when the flowing mass of wispy appendages cease fanning his groin lightly. Two thicker, flat ribbons emerge from the floating gas cloud.

Clearly it’s not gas, but Tony lacks much ability to form descriptive words, let alone accurate ones. He shakes his head and whimpers, frantic again, his movements slowed as if submerged in the ocean.

The dark ribbons lick up the cleft in his ass and lazily paint a circle around the root of his cock. One slinks under his balls, the other coiling up like a constrictor snake around his base. He shudders and bends.

They squeeze. The world explodes in red, and something wet and slippery pours into his mouth.

Another few tugs on his nipples brings them out to even greater prominence, raspberry nubs swollen with blood and stung by the cold. The slightest vibration over them sends a harmonic thrill into his confused nervous system. Thin strands tug and twang against his stiff flesh, leaving him aching.

Another tug slowly draws his balls out, and the binding will eventually leave them ripe and red. Weaving round in figure eights separates the spheres inside to a neat package, a promising target.

The man lies insensate in a confounded fugue, struggling for breath and slurping on the thick appendage penetrating his mouth, as the void creature envelopes the lower third of his cock.

A good thing he isn’t aware of much or else he might struggle harder to the thin, semi-transparent appendage lapping the underside of the crown and another brushing lightly across his slit.

He comes to only when the first centimeter of that fine point slides down into his urethra, a burning heat dimming out, gold flecks of a sparkler.

The creature prefers to move slower, pinched by the confines of that narrow tube. It descends while his cock bulges, every tiny ripple or knot visible from within. Another tendril awaits its chance to follow, but his slit overflows with clear precum as his body fights back by lubricating itself.

Mind whirling, Tony gasps out when the shaft leaves his slack mouth. It produces some kind of tasteless liquid that drips over his swollen lips. He gurgles and chokes, trying to force his throat muscles to operate. Most of it is in his belly.

“Please,” he moans, aware of the uncomfortable pressure on his legs, his chest, his groin. He shakes his head again and strains to see, only to stare in horrified fixation.

Oh, he is obscenely hard, his shaft at full attention. Cock rings are nothing new, but nothing prepares him for the veins standing out as the second tendril squeezes in along the first. It burns, dully, and he shouts in a mix of horror and depraved fascination.

The two duet around inside his cock, plunging down, slipping along and massaging him from the inside out. When his muscles involuntarily clench, the tender little strokes to the muscle blocking the way to his bladder weaken his resistance until one shoves its way even deeper.

He arches rigid, trying not to scream again, fighting weakly with all he has while the creature slowly, deliberately sounds his most vulnerable position. The churning tentacles emerge completely soaked, wet as plum, and surge back inside.

Each surge deeper captures more blood, the veins standing out in profile. He can’t stop them, nor the corresponding wave of molten desire caught behind a dam. The pressure is already atmospheric and building, a crushing need to come and drain himself. But the bindings on his balls prevent that, the snug tendrils looped around him possessively.

Every so often they pull or squeeze, assuring the obscene roundness only grows. Tony babbles nonsense, pleading, shouting, begging, cursing.

He manages just enough lift to buck his hips, hopeful that he can throw off something. Hope never really dies, but a third wisp locked around his cock shrinks down to ring the root even tighter, revealing more space for the two tentacles to vigorously fuck him. They thicken, slowly, and he in turn expands to the widening force stuffing him and withdrawing.

Jagged thoughts spin out as he hangs in the air, the Chitauri void considering its next move. Its needs are inhuman, its motives inscrutable.

He chokes and whines at the fierce, jagged edge of an orgasm denied to him. Tony’s toes curl as his hips are lifted higher, and the gravitational bubble shrinks or moves or something. He can’t follow, only tipping back perilously far so his dick stands straight as a tower and his spread legs provide an inviting view of his hole.

“Fr-- Friday,” he whispers. “Sixteen, _sixteen_.”

“Active.” Her voice comes from so very far away.

A tendril probes at his tight ring, pushing against it. He clenches at the first foray, but the tightening bands around his legs prove inescapable and restrict him from even that.

Thin as the ribbons are, they feel gigantic when brushing against the clenched portal. Smooth edges race around his anus, at least three, maybe five. He loses count while they undulate for position, pushing in a test against the vulnerable sphincter.

Another frosty pang blitzes his stretched nipples and he jerks in his bonds, a full body spasm.

Two of those violet wisps wedge into him during the momentary pause in his resistance. He chokes as they roll and rub against the puckered ring, besieging its limited resistance by producing more of that slick substance. A glob of it oozes through the tight gape between the writhing shapes.

Pretty soon, his hole can’t resist the pressure, slackening, relaxed while the third narrow tube pushes in and curls at twelve o’clock, the others at eight and four.

They pull. Slow, of course, rolling and rubbing against the ring. But his hole starts to spread, blossoming open. His eyes roll back as he realizes the thing intends to wreck his hole, leaving him gaping for something. Something big. He can feel the air moving and bucks again, doing no more than displacing a tendril stuffed in his cock. It soon enough winnows back and deep, poised to simply keep him full.

Another centimeter stretches his anal ring. His hole is open enough for the blunt tip of a much larger, wavery appendage that the Chitauri lines up with ease.

The right to moan and grunt and whine is taken from him by the thick shaft pressed to his lips and working, screwing and twisting, until his jaws part wide. The rounded cap settles deep in his mouth but not so far back to choke him, only gagging the sounds he is bound to make.

He’s about to take something much bigger up the ass.

 

 


	2. Between Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony has skipped out on fun Fridays with the Avengers one too many times. All work and no time for his best friends sends Steve out to find out what's going on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A non-kinky interlude, but we'll be back to defiling Tony in the next chapter. Kudos and comments are always appreciated.

Clint slinks into the dim sum restaurant, absent of all his usual confidence. Face buried in his mobile phone, he swipes through a parade of images as fast as they load into the screen.

Navigating around the rolling carts and young children lolling out of booths, he narrowly avoids a server balancing a tray of steaming soups. She gasps in Cantonese, and he looks up to glaze her in a once over. About twenty-two, definitely Chinese American, and plenty unimpressed by the disheveled blond guy who about ran her over. He grins and says, “Sorry, trying to figure out where my friends are.”

“That’s Tinder,” she fires back.

“Some of my friends are on Tinder,” Clint says, and smiles all the wider.

When she stares him down, he swivels to the side to allow her pass. The brief distraction gives him a chance to spot Nat and Sam wedged into a horseshoe booth, one very obvious absence a hole in their quartet. They dwell in the corner where a jutting column gives a bit of privacy, though not much.

He slouches up their way, the proverbial Beast on its way to Babylon, taking his sweet time until the Russian assassin fixes him with her unnervingly direct stare.

“Losing your touch,” Sam says.

Clint slaps his palm over his heart, crumpling into the other unoccupied side of the booth. “You wound me, man. Let's all hear the wisdom of the love guru, Wilson.

Predictably Sam grabs the laminated menu and hides behind the columns of dim sum offerings, noodles and steamed buns rippling, his laughter barely suppressed.

“Enough of that.” Nat pours herself a cup of tea from a huge, dented pot anchored in front of her. “You neglect to extend the invitation to Stark, huh?”

New record, thirty-two seconds before they give him the nth degree. Clint fusses over sliding chopsticks out from their paper sleeve, snapping them up the middle. Predictably one ends up with an excess chunk of bamboo, the other whittled down to a skinny point.

“Good for murdering any vampires stupid enough to attack a Chinese restaurant.” He spins the chopstick on his knuckle to the great amusement of a little boy in a school uniform two tables over.

“Hey, man, focus.” Sam picks up a pencil to tick off a few entrees on the lengthy paper menu left on the table. Previous marks from Natasha’s previous order stand out in her neat, compact writing. “Just tell us if you forgot. It’s cool.”

They both stare at him like he’s incapable of following a simple text message. Clint slaps his hand back over his chest again, sighing loudly. “You act like I might be _snubbing_ our esteemed colleague, or somehow uninterested in visiting. Speaking of, where is Martha?”

Over the rim of her handleless tea cup, Natasha levels that unblinking blue stare he thinks of as her _Business Face_. Business Face is adorable unless directed at him, in which case she means business, possibly by bringing up her polished black leather boot between the crux of his legs.

“Checking in on Jack.” She taps her manicured nail against the ceramic printed in golden lions and rose geometric patterns.

“He should be back any time,” Sam adds.

Clint shrugs off the dramatic posture, sitting up and thumbing another menu to skim over. The Avengers meet up here every two weeks or so, and he has the authentic Mandarin menu down cold. Still, sometimes the specials change and he likes to stay sharp.

“That explains Martha’s absence. Cool, I look forward to telling him about the sick playlist I built for our next training session.” He grins. “How’s Jack doing, anyways?”

“Par for the course. He’s not coming.” Nat cuts off further queries. “Where the hell is Tony?”

“Holed up in his lab. Dicking around.”

Sam shuts down a groan, rubbing his hand over his face. “You know the whole purpose of our Friday nighters is getting Tony _out_ of the lab?”

“No, really?”

Nat gestures at the hole in the booth beside Clint, flicking her fingers back and forth. “See this space? The one where a certain man is not sitting? I fail to understand how you can acquire a pizza ninety miles from the nearest pizzeria, but you cannot bring out Tony from his office.”

“He’s got a flying marble that shoots lasers, okay?”

Clint slams down the menu on the table, causing the ice water and the tea to rattle, sloshing about. “Molly looks _mean_.”

His friends exchange a look and Sam mops up the spilled water with a napkin. “I’ll see if Wanda can pick him up.”

Natasha shakes her head, tucking her newly dyed brown hair behind her ears. The dark shade never ceases to startle Clint, preferring her as her natural red, but the altered spectrum will invariably have something to do with a secret mission. “Don’t bother, she cancelled. She and Strange needed to patch up an incursion in Ireland.”

Clint waves a hand. “See, down two, it’s not the end of the world.”

Of course fate hates an archer because Steve reappears from his jaunt around the block just in time to hear that. He wears the Avengers standard for going incognito, a baseball cap, hoodie, and aviators glossed up to a weirdly golden sheen.

“1978 isn’t a good look for you.” He dares to grin.

Steve takes everything in stride, including questions about his fashion choices, not even cracking a frown or puzzled look. Only that almost shy, boyish smile, delivered with all the candor of an All-American hero, fit to make guys like Clint feel bad for a half-second.

“Hi to you too. Tony trying to park?”

“Tony’s not coming,” Natasha says, cutting off Clint’s elaborate explanation.

Broad shoulders drop a degree at best, and the shallow nod is textbook _disappointed parent accepts bad news_. That, rather than Sam and Nat shuffling over to give Steve space to sit really cuts.

Last ditch damage control time.

Clint spreads his hands, dropping a chopstick onto the table. “I tried. I really did. Stark basically blew me out the door and told me to get lost. He had more important things to do than, you know, hanging out with his friends.”

“This is why he doesn’t have friends.” Sam yelps when an elbow knocks him in the ribs, and hard to say whether Natasha or Steve got him first.

The waitress reappears to lay down another glass of water and fresh cutlery for Steve, adding several bowls of rice -- all on his side of the table, Clint notes, like he is some kind of emperor to be fed first and the rest of the loyal subjects.

Of course they simper and shyly grin at Captain America, even if Steve swears up and down no one here knows who they are.

After their server shuffles off with a chorus of thank yous, Steve returns his mild, summer blue gaze to Clint. “Did he say what was so important? If it’s something big, we should be at the tower…”

Sam pinches his brow. “You want to watch him and Banner argue over acceptable error ranges and variables again?”

“Or bosons,” Clint adds.

“He’s been holed up in there for a month, Barton. Come on, you’ll forgive me when I see a man burying his problems ever since Pepper left,” Steve spells it out clearly, worry tracing every sound. “Let’s get a few things to go and we can surprise him.”

Nat shakes her head. “He ditched us for the sixth time.”

“What the heck does he have in there, anyway?”

Sam’s question causes all three of his friends to swivel and look at Clint, expecting _him_ to know what the hell Tony Stark does on his off time. He raises his palms, shrinking back against the vinyl booth. “Whoa, you think _I_ can perform some kind of miracle? He only made it plenty clear I was not welcome, and Friday went on about electromagnetic fluctuations in the artifact.”

They all know the no swearing policy. Natasha wrings the life out of a napkin and pointedly avoids meeting anyone’s eyes.  
  
“He found more of that alien tech, didn’t he?” Steve strokes his jaw with his thumb.

“Sounds like it.”

“I thought we covered how terrible an idea this was _last_ time when that salvage company from Queens blew up half of Coney Island.” Sam presses a palm to the tabletop.

“So did I, Sam. I think I better head over and check out what’s going on.” Steve took the lead running into the brink, and he does so now, standing and zipping his hoodie up.

Clint has to, of course, be the Lancelot to his Arthur. “Naw, you don’t need to leave your dinner for that. Let me go yell some sense into him.”

Nat thrusts a phone at Steve. “Or, you know, you could _call_ him.”

Now they both look like idiots standing around the table, but Steve accepts the offering graciously and manages to navigate to Tony’s number on only the third attempt. He goes straight into voicemail. The second and third and fourth contact numbers all suffer the same fate, though gets Friday answering on the fifth.

“Mr. Stark requests not to be interrupted during a sensitive experiment,” she chirps brightly, not even a hello for anyone. “Is this a critical emergency?”

“Well, no,” Steve says.

“Goodbye.” She severs the connection. He stares in bemusement at the device in his hand, and gently lays the phone back on the table. “I’m going over.”

The collective groan is loud enough to hurry over a waitress with their order on a rolling cart, negotiating the hazardous terrain between kitchen and corner booth.

“And hauling his butt back here, right?” Clint, full of good ideas, feels his contribution is not only sensible but appropriate given how much grief he took over Tin Can Stark.

Steve shakes his head, pulling his hat down, and sliding the awful aviators back onto his nose. “No, Barton, that’s not my style. I’ll ask him _nicely_ to come.”

“I’m sure you will,” Nat says, and they’re left to ponder why the hell Steve Rogers hustles out with a pink blush staining his cheeks.


	3. Getting All He Can Take

Tony Stark wants to come more than near anything in the world, and he cannot.

He can no sooner call his latest _Bleeding Edge_ suit than empty his balls in a white fountain gushing into the air. His distress is not for lack of trying, his tautly arched body shaken by powerful tremors in a vain effort to blow its load.

Unfortunately, the cool, silky strands wrapped liberally around his extremities and exploring the most forbidden places of his anatomy do not appreciate the urgency. In fact, he’s fairly sure they intend to keep him on the bleeding threshold of an orgasm until his heart gives out or a vein bursts.

The source of his torment does not speak of its intentions, or speak at all for that matter. Partly corporeal, the gently glowing collection of dark matter, visible light, and dusts floats above the tiled laboratory floor. Swirling wisps originate from the ultraviolet nexus that are unquestionably tangible, even if so much of its mass is not. Tony knows this firsthand because the wisps in various thicknesses are violating three of his orifices, and truth told, he lacks the will or means to stop their ravaging.  

Violet-black appendages stronger by far than even Steve Rogers’ grip secure Tony above the floor, winding around his body forcibly arched back over an oblong bubble of gravity.

His head is knocked back lower than his strained chest by gravity and pinned forcibly by the smooth, oddly cool shaft that flirts with the back of his throat. His lips cling to the slippery surface that forces his jaws open and pins down his tongue, enabling the shaft to freely orally fuck him at whatever pace the Chitauri void likes. Currently it jams several inches past the slackened muscles that would normally produce a gag reflex, part of the contact poison relaxing him to accept this gurgling violation. Thanks to his exposed position, the bulge traveling along his neck is fully visible. A glimpse in the battered glass panes shows him exactly what a face fuck looks like.

Tears drip down his cheeks and vanish into his dark hair, but the risk of choking for a lack of oxygen diminishes by the moment when he remembers to inhale through his nose or gurgle in muffled protest. The wisp withdraws to allow him to gasp before diving back into him, cramming its rounded tip nice and deep, holding in place.

Maybe it wants him to enjoy the acute helplessness. If so, mission accomplished.

Slimmer tubes vary their tension around his stretched and clamped nipples. A good thing he can’t understand how puffy they became after repeated injections of a viscous fluid through the humming lilac strands woven around his puckered areolas. Occasional lashes send him into full-body convulsions, his futile effort to kick out his free leg patiently hobbled by a combination of modified gravity and another tendril wrapped around his ankle and knee.

Tony whines loudly around the serpentine bulb gagging his mouth when the short, quick stings lash his plump nubs. Hollow strands pulsate hard upon the captive tips, igniting a fire of sensation, the coating spilled out onto his flesh leaving him hypersensitive to even imagined movement. Suction alternates and flows in the weirdest way, but his nipples beg for the steady, calculated whipping they receive from the radiant fronds.

It should hurt. It doesn’t, filling his balls with a tingling, indescribably intense heat. He hangs there feeling the glowing weight intensify until his testicles feel like small neutron stars improbably wrapped up by thick bindings, but those made of satiny matter rather than silicone ball binders that may end up surreptitiously purchased from a reputable site in a few hours.

If he has balls left. At this point, Tony has trouble even remembering his own name.

The patient horror continues to explore the boundaries of his tolerance as it prepares him further. Obsidian motes flicker along the thicker ribbons that securely wrap around one outward pointing knee, adjusting to slide further up his thigh and calf. Squeezed into a full fold, that leg can produce next to no resistance against being spread far to inhibit the arching man from reaching any escape or protecting his bound cock from presentation.

And what presentation it is, the highest point right now. Several inches spring from the snug plum bands at the root, another tendril curled to keep the blood-engorged shaft obscenely placed. Veins stand out in great relief thanks to the two diminutive appendages sounding him as far as his prostate, alternating as one dips and falls. Tony long ago gave up attempting to follow their rhythm, for they beat an unpredictable tattoo coursing along his urethra. Precum is mostly absent, but their own clear lubricant liberally slathers the interior and exterior of his cock, leaving his shaft even more unnaturally receptive to the merest contact than his elongated nipples.

His pelvis and lower back rest on the regular curve of the bubble, but as a consequence all the blood rushing to his head keeps him even foggier than the alien compound. He floats along, mostly compliant, stuffed to the brim. His cock slit can’t even twitch, rimmed by another feathery touch, like that too might be rammed in if the dusty nebula could only figure out how.

For ten minutes, he has been summarily suspended against an inescapable presence, the reason for his building urge to explosively climax. A fat knob rests up against his gaping anus and has not, will not push in.

So unfair. The heat radiating from its surface beckons like a friendly fireplace on a winter’s night. He mindlessly strains to feel a kiss against his ass, but the pressure remains an unmoving, terrible promise in place.

 _Why?_ How can it hover there without advancing forward or back? Tony gurgles again in frustration.

He has to do something or it’s going to kill him.

Why won’t it _fuck_ him?

His best efforts to strain away once results in the three slim, immensely strong tendrils hooked behind his softened rosette pulling wider. Tony already opened up an inch across, his muscular ring unable to so much as muster a twitch.

He moans in protest and the penetrative shaft rams down his yielding throat, then pulls back almost to his stretched lips. Slurping at the trail of tasteless liquid satisfies nothing except avoiding dehydration from all he drools while the wispy cord fills his mouth.

His mistake. The void vigorously starts to violate him, never departing further than his teeth, hammering back in.

No one hears his scream, the noise transmuted into vibrations, and those rapid shockwaves dance along his stretched cock, notes on a struck tuning fork. They hum along his taut ring, and he grinds a little, because the strongest bindings holding his stomach refuse to let him gyrate in comforting circles. The strands wound about his balls tighten slightly and the insistent burning warmth in his anus blossoms again.

Oh yes. He's going to open up for something -- anything -- or else why would the void horror be preparing his ass? Tony quakes in delirious anticipation. 

Another glacial epoch later, the plundering in his mouth slows and he sags, compliant and momentarily broken by the sheer gaping width that thing forced him to spread to.

Forced? Well. It's not like he hasn't jacked off to porn about that very arresting sight, some beautiful strawberry-blonde taking a pink dildo called the  _Violator_ or a ribbed pseudo monster dick into her gushing depths. Since Pepper left, he has too much personal time on his hands. But those tables are turned, and now he is the one keening, forced to wait on being thoroughly stuffed to the point he comes automatically.

If those devious appendages intend to let him come instead of massaging his pucker, encouraging its elastic contours lewdly wide.  _Yes, this is gonna be a thing now._    

Will he ever be able to close up again?

What happens when he takes a cock in his hole? Will he have to shuffle around his penthouse with an oversized plug to feel maximum satisfaction? Well, no, but the idea makes his hole quiver.

Questions dance through his thoughts while hovering on a miserable, unfulfilled brink. Shame tickles somewhere along with a bleak need for _more_.

Oh God. All the ultraviolet Chitauri monster offers, right now, he wants in his ass. He’ll take the bondage and his embarrassment only to come with the artifact filling him.

He can’t even call to FRIDAY, presuming she hasn’t been completely scrambled or cut off in the explosion that birthed this horror from its Chitauri metal egg.

The bubble shifts underneath him, tipping his legs a bit further up and apart. He struggles when the alien cords realign, inclining him in a way that makes even drawing a full proper breath hard. Shuffling, sliding wisps hooked just inside crowd in his gape, something like six briefly taking up position, and he gurgles, suddenly worried through the lulling haze of his denied orgasmic fugue.

Something changed. What?

The omnipresent pressure against his hole is gone. Tony damn near weeps harder than he has at any point, aware too keenly of the stillness in his bulging cock and the motionless weight he engulfs with his lips. In spite of everything, a half-hearted suck tries to encourage its movement.

 _Nothing_.

Another rough little shake of his hips avails only straining himself, his body firmly held without an inch of give.

Is this how he will pass the night? Days? His paper thin patience goes up in flames to the despair and titanic lust crashing down on him in a massive wave.

Yet he cannot wave a white flag, denied from coming by the ribboned strands constricting his sack and pulling it out, engorging each individually wrapped side bigger than golf balls.

He’d rather die than hold out on the cusp lie this.

A glare thrown at the hazy, unmoving void speckled in starlight holds no defiance, only an unmet demand.

It moves. The huge central tendril held just out of his sight advances back to his prepared, rosy hole. Wetness drools off his perineum and coats his interior, liberally spilled in to join the warm sea sloshing around. That same substance keeps him from offering much resistance as the Chitauri artifact eases in the flaring tip to push past the three tendrils and his pucker.

He isn't prepared. Nothing could be prepared for what extends from the wavery ridges. Spread as he is, the blunt purple black end of the tendril is half again as wide as his lubed anus. But it will fit, with patient endurance and wet insistence. Tony is getting his wish filled.

And his ass.

To say the route is easy is like suggesting climbing Kilimanjaro is a hill walk, and Tony immediately arches hard and desperate against his bonds. No chance of motion; the Chitauri void holds him exactly where it wants -- if it wants at all, is capable of want, hard to say -- and forces him down onto the wavering flared end.

The muscular rings pop around it, unbelievably, and it feels so intense and so good, he cannot possibly decipher the explosive torrent of signals sent into his bewildered brain. That big -- no, huge, he amends -- knob is inside him somehow. He took it.

There's so much more to go.

He cannot see the full length, only that the extended appendage undulates in irregular waves to an enormous girth, and he is presently hosting maybe an inch or two. His inner walls bulge out to accept the tip being pushed back and forth in a rapid jackhammer, forcing the muscles nice and wide for the amethyst tendril. That feels indescribably perfect as he clings to the serpentine hardness, stretched in new ways, a velvet hot sheath for a cosmic toy that wants to get much deeper. It will, and the bound man leaks lube in a dribble continuously rather than the cum that can't escape the Chitauri ball and cock bondage. He can't cum, but those lightly squeezing and relaxing strands keep him soaring to a new plateau. 

His teeth would chatter if not rendered useless, and his body is already locked in the throes of an aborted orgasm by the time the first bulge sinks inside.

His hole is pulled in and out, the reddened margins sucked in slightly and pushed out between the relentless micro-oscillations that hammer him. No machine could match this guaranteed method to have him good and ready for a proper fuck -- hell, knotting, if the void intends that. He's riding a vibrator in a hurricane. Tony would climb the walls if he were not on his back.

The slender tendrils stuffing his cock start to withdraw, then push in, taking a leisurely counterpoint to the hole-wrecking monstrosity winding up into his readied rectum.

He cries out his assent, another shudder carried through all his binding wisps. The shaft in his mouth nudges into his throat, gagging him until stars fill his vision and he gets lightheaded. No one told him that strengthens the orgasm denied him, and the third frond stuffs into his urethral tunnel to give a last dive over the edge.

Something critical bends in his mind. He feels the pressure and the gentle lubricating of the soaked channel, the bulbous little strand filling while it sounds him. This one is thicker to start with and it grows around the other two. More pumps in response to his mindless humping. The biggest swell forms inside his corona. It rounds out, filled by the semi-viscous substance until his cum slit gapes a bit and reveals the ultraviolet sphere coyly.

Knotted, just like he wanted. No coming yet.

Every inch of available space will take the Chitauri design, and he gags on the throat-reaming shaft as the next bulge on the huge tendril in his ass makes the first seem like a grape next to a grapefruit. He gets no sympathy screaming in abject pleasure when the advancing tendril strikes his prostate and continues its micro-humming jerks while it courses deeper.

Another pair of frosty shocks run through his nipples, and he strains against the bindings all he can. He might as well try to break himself on the ceiling. The loose fronds crop the nubs for a sting that builds the pressure immensely in his cock.

The void isn’t letting him go now that it can punch-fuck him from three ends, which it proceeds to do to varying magnitude and methodical gusto. He takes it, because what choice is there? Minutes melt away into wracked bliss.

His mouth hangs slack, or would, if not for the tendril ramming into his throat. The remaining two strands buried in his cock adopt what feels like a row of beads alongside the knotted sound, impossible as that has to be. They work his urethra to the max, pushing down and up, and his eyes roll back. His anus is a thin, gripping band around the most spectacular insertion he can possibly conjure.

Seven inches down and his navel and rippling abdominal muscles clearly wrap around the cylinder, showing off how much Tony has taken, and continues to take. The strokes moving in and out are longer, stopping when his anal ring can’t quite stretch around the next undulation. The void waits for him to adjust by battering him slowly and leisurely. Just a little time and he takes more, proceeding to slurp the mouth tendril. His anal ring slides up and down the wavy appendage with better ease than he could ever imagine.

He has no mental power to muster about worrying about the orgasm he needs.

Just never let this end. Keep him exactly where he is, stretched good and wide, his prostate being relentlessly tenderized upon the smooth, pulsating tendril pistoning in him.

Just leave absolutely no space please.

The Chitauri void is timeless. It is limitless, and ignores the broken babble about cum and stretching originating from the wild-eyed man staring sightlessly at nothing. It obliges him by returning four thin cords to plunge under the strained ring and pulling outward in terribly slow pulsations, working his hole nice and wide for the next fat bulge.

In a herculean effort, by instinct he tries to squeeze more of the fat appendage inside him by bearing down.

He’s been a good boy. His pretty, wrecked hole is so greedy, and the void understands greed. He needs more. He needs a reward.

Another push and he is gurgling in satisfaction as Steve Rogers steps into the lab, holding up the pass-card that Tony once swore would get into even the most tightly locked corridors.

The blond stares at the sight. Tony is being totally reamed every which way, and his nipples inside the translucent purple tendrils fix Steve's gaze. His mouth goes dry. He gets about three seconds of motionless shock before a violet strand lashes out and catches him around the throat, disregarding his fists that move to block.

“ _Tony!_ ” he shouts, but to no avail. “What are you doing?”

Stark accepts the slow inch grudgingly stuffed into him, the renewed vacuum suction on his cherry-pink nipples to fully plump them to their maximum, and the huge shaft burrowing back into the warm recesses of his mouth.

Steve tries to fight, he does, but the Chitauri horror hauls him over. Another pair of tendrils manage to seize his shoulders and bind one arm safely to his side, preventing him from lashing out, but still that gravitation pull is inexorable.

With all the havoc around him, Tony hears and sees nothing. He only knows the shocking fullness like he’s never had before, the burning wildfire insistence of his body marching along one command line: come, come, _come_.

The void obliges by thrusting in hard and deep, slow as a ballet dancer going through her motions.

More. Please, he needs more. _More_. Come. _More_.

His head lolls back and the tendril plunders his throat, dragging in and shrinking slightly when withdrawing. As it pulls out he inhales, and it plugs him up good again, refusing to depart from the source of molten perfection. The Chitauri technology accommodates and augments itself to fit him, fulfilling what its alien programming requires.

Nothing quite prepares him for the wet mouth clamping onto his balls, awkwardly lapping the wrapped sphere.

The pressure points shove Steve’s face into his groin, and the desperate, hasty lapping runs over his left ball down to his gaping hole, filled to absolute capacity by the tentacle.

That velvety tongue rolls right over the thin pink muscle right as Tony feels an unbearable pressure deep inside, and two of those anal-stretching tendrils slide in to hammer right atop his prostate. It feels like two fingers massaging from one side, right as another urethral strand weaves past the muscle into his prostate directly, curling and pushing from the other side.

Steve slurps and swallows, tongue pressed to his chin at its maximum length. His mouth engulfs the one fat sphere he can and he messily suckles, unable to move his head except slightly side to side.

When the strands loosen their grip on Tony's strained cock only for two or three breaths, the effect is instantaneous. All that dammed cum pours out in a roaring rush, trying to force its way up. The knot stays inflated to bulge the shaft for several seconds,  and then pulls out in a single draw, deflating to allow the round balls to stretch and give texture as they glide away. That leaves the two thin, sounding appendages scissored as far apart as they can go to force Tony’s urethra to open up for his release.

He dimly feels the seductive pull. _Yes. It's so good._

The first shot comes out in a huge rope, bubbling over and splattering on his stomach. The next eruption puddles down his cock. Weak muscles can’t force the enormous volume any distance, but without the slack effect from the Chitauri oils, his stretched ass might be aflame. Trade offs he's willing to accept, if he had a choice.

Tony sees only white, overtaken by uncontrollable shaking when his world goes supernova. Steve diligently moves his tongue around, almost gagging on Stark’s quaking balls.

“Protocol sixteen confirmed,” chimes FRIDAY. “Mr. Stark has achieved maximum orgasmic value.”

The void does not stop, pummeling the man’s prostate while he tapers from one climax into another. Whatever compels action, it is not satisfied by pouring a copious volume of pearly seed onto his stomach bulge.

Steve lays his unbound hand on the curve formed by by the moving fat tendril that reams Tony deeply, awed somewhat by the powerful vibrations. He pushes down a little against the firm wavy shaft, and another modest gush coats his knuckles. Looks like Tony likes that a lot.

“Please verbally confirm whether to continue or cease protocol sixteen, Captain Rogers.”

The blond looks around blindly. When he ceases to suckle, the strands around him tighten, shoving him back down. He chokes out, “FRIDAY, what’s next?”

“Mr. Stark requests you penetrate his throat while experiencing your own anal orgasms. Maximum diameter three inches for you. Will you consent?”

 _So like Tony. Think about everyone else while pretending not to give a damn._ Steve blushes hotter as his tongue works in lapping circles, rimming the top crescent of Tony’s stretched anus.

 _Three inches?_ Not like Stark sets the bar low. But it must be worth it if he set up FRIDAY with those exact specifications. Steve is glad for the damn text messages warning him. He wouldn't want to miss this. 

“Proceed,” he mutters shakily.

“Very good, Captain Rogers. Your safeword is _quark_ ,” FRIDAY adds. “The Chitauri artifact will assist you to stays standing when you penetrate Tony’s mouth. Please be reminded he instructs you to take him as hard as you can.”

He stands, and the strands wrapped around him loosen, allowing easy movement under their steadying presence.

"I'll bet he did." The ultraviolet void is definitely doing that, breaking down boundaries to keep the orgasmic high at maximum strength. He reaches out to pinch Tony's red nipple. 

Steve blushes as he stares at the bucking, trembling man. It’s going to be a hard night.

“Can he take much more?”

Silly question with Tony coming his brains out like the cock slut he is. Another half inch of the void's tentacle vanishes into his anus, past the silver line marking the deepest he took it before. Steve swallows with difficulty again. There is still another foot visible waiting to pack into Tony's ass if he wants it.

Steve is glad for fun Fridays and his cock ring, suddenly. Just putting it on will be the challenge.

He reaches into his pocket while FRIDAY processes the question and the Chitauri artifact obliges Tony's desire for a good slow, hard fucking that sends cum and lube splashing onto his belly. 

“That’s the point of protocol sixteen, Captain Rogers. He'll take as much as you or the artifact give him. The training regimen has improved results by seventeen percent. To quote Mr. Stark, ‘I want my hole totally wrecked on that thing so I can’t walk for days.’”

The silicone ring snaps into place around the root of Steve's cock. He will need it, given that tall order. "All right. Keep him stretched until it's not safe."

"Excellent. Protocol extension confirmed." 

He strokes Tony’s face, brushing away the tears of delight and the wetness left behind. Well, Tony’s lucky he always gives him what he wants.  


	4. Open For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a smile from Steve, so terribly sweet. “Thought I might make a few adjustments to the program. Something to make things a bit more interesting.”
> 
> Tony tries to tip his head and gurgles a questioning noise. 
> 
> He wants Steve to lap his stretched rim and suck his cock. He wants Steve’s cock down his throat, and that massive dildo pounding into his ass, all at once. Some things, not even the serum allows Captain America to do, but the delirious cadence of Tony’s thoughts blows past the possible into erotic fantasy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony submits to some proper anal training like the good size queen he is.

The glassy elevator reflects his drawn expression, the cool features wrapped in a slick package all the Wall Street executives hate and the ladies love.

“Protocol nineteen,” Tony says.

“Good evening, Mr. Stark.” FRIDAY responds almost instantaneously, transforming a smooth glass panel into a complicated set of diagnostic plans. “Please select Mark 81 configuration and I will begin the assembly process.”

A few swipes of his fingers dismiss with the usual fanfare, arranging for the temperature controls and basic systems. He hovers with a thumb over a round dial, considering the accessories in the vault.

It’s been a long, hard week full of hostile takeover rumours and a supplier through Asia disrupted by political turmoil. The president is crowing in front of the cameras again about reducing the sovereignty of tech companies and bringing more military industrial development in house, sending Stark Technologies’ stock into a jittery run. Surely a man should treat himself and relax a little.

He sets the dial to the midpoint and punches the parameters in, going for a heavier external build than the standard dimensions.

FRIDAY chirps her assent. “I have a stored note from your last session. Would you like to hear it?”

Tony’s heartbeat quickens, the arc reactor pulsing in the center of his chest in response. Blue light flickers through his tight black t-shirt, a discotheque on his breastbone, and he puts his hand on the wall.

“Your vital signs are accelerating, Mr. Stark.” Of course the AI monitors him constantly and reports the biofeedback, but he doesn’t need the blunt announcement. “Verbal confirmation required for proceeding from your previous benchmark.”

The elevator lands in the sub-base mentioned with a gentle whoosh, doors opening as the pressure around them equalizes. No turning back now if he’s going to go to bed sore, spent and satisfied from a good workout session.

“Authorized. Override the training program I from last time. I want Magna.”

“Magna hasn’t been tested,” FRIDAY’s warning he cuts off with a wave of his hand. It’s been an age since he really worked himself hard and felt the strain in his muscles.

A zing travels up the column of his spine and shoots off into his extremities. His nerve doesn’t break as he pads out into the cool lab where whizzing drones assemble the glistening red and gold armour upon a platform.

FRIDAY works fast and the protocols programmed into the database allow multiple drones to work in tandem, creating an exoskeleton for him to step into. But first Tony has preparations to make.

He strips down to his boxers in the office outside the platform, rolling up his socks into a fat bundle next to a discarded coffee mug. Rather than leave his trousers and t-shirt in a heap, he bothers folding them into a neat pile. True, he doesn’t see the point when a technological servant will whisk the clothes off for cleaning and pressing, but such polite gestures count for someone else.

His mom always did say it was the thought that counts. He hopes so. Otherwise tonight might get rather interesting indeed.

Steve is unpredictable when he gets worked up. A long, hard day facing off against politicians or SHIELD senior management tends to vex him and sometimes, a camera in his face or another question about his love life proves the straw that broke Captain America’s back. Mostly, though, Tony takes the blame. Sassing or snark rubs his fur wrong and it all goes downhill from there.

The last time Tony misgauged his mood, he couldn’t walk straight for three days. Three of the best days in the past six months, come to think, but his hole throbbed for hours.

He finally ceases daydreaming when the doors swish open and one of the drones flutters out, the whine of its propellers guiding him forward. The small craft orbits his head while he wanders almost lazily up the stairs, looking at the hollow imprint of the heavier armour waiting for its pilot.

“So, FRIDAY, you got anything special for me?” he asks as he lines his feet up and lies back.

Padding conforms rapidly to his body, cushioning him in a thin, gel-like layer from nape to Achilles heels. Already warm to the touch, his own body heat confirms a perfect seal, but permeable enough to let him move without chafing or too much sweat.

Jazz music spills out from the speakers in the suit and the room. Not his favourite choice, but he shuts his eyes and allows the slinky bass beat to carry him off. Learning to breathe calmly while mummified in metal was one of his first lessons as Iron Man.

The augmentation on the Mark 81 require adjustments. Heavier than his usual preferences, he can lean back fully without it toppling over on the stand. His feet slide a little in the boots assembled up over his knees, and a spontaneous shiver breaks out as the cooling swish of air announces the plates locking in over his chest and shoulders. With his eyes closed, he registers the mask settled into place.

Immediately the HUD pops up, his heart rate and blood oxygen measured in the corner. Soothing rhythms plucked on a piano melt around the atmospheric instrumentals, but his beating heart spikes the line, showing the struggle for calm.

Cool liquid mists along the seam where the armoured tassets join up with the main cuirass of the suit. The shock makes him jump, but the unyielding metal cages Tony in place and prevents much lateral motion.

“Initiating final preparations,” FRIDAY says. Is that a laugh?  Any AI talking back to him is going to end up junked and their code demolished.

Tongue on his dry lips, he has just enough time to wet them before a blunt object summarily nudges them.

“So soo--”

His startled response is met with a fat prod thrusting between his teeth. Past experience logically teaches that resisting the oblong shaft is pointless. It will nudge at his mouth until something forces him to open, and then ram its way in until he gags, teary-eyed and coughing. Better to admit it this way, anyhow.

The lozenge doesn’t taste good despite the faint salty coating. He tries to suck in a breath and manages an obscene slurp muffled by the helmet. Cheeks bow inwards as suction builds, and the round knob of the shaft effectively pins down his tongue.

Automated protocols snap the round disk open into two matching hemispheres. The corners of his lips stretch and pull to the silicon-coated brackets blossoming wide. His tongue curls in a minimal attempt to prod the intrusion aside, but without luck. By the time the shaft withdraws, the ring gag is open and locked in place. He can barely move his head forward before brushing against the tight, buffering cushion.

“Ohfff ggggh,” Tony maintains all his usual eloquence. Gagged from the outset is part of the usual procedure, but usually he ends up sucking on the cock gag or choking on a ball.

Drool already collects in his mouth and he can either let the saliva pool over the corner of his widely spread mouth or gurgle. The latter falls beneath his dignity, so soak his pepper goatee it is.

The rest of the queued commands flow in order and he winces when the material of his boxers tears along the seams. Black silk doesn’t want to give and he strains as the taut fabric tents over his growing erection. Only half hard, his cock presses against the veil trying to lay it flat against Tony’s belly.

Nozzles continue to mist his inner thighs up to his taint, coating his skin in a fine silicone-based lubricant with hardly any scent or flavour to speak of.

That alone tells him exactly what he’s in for, and he grinds his backside against the hermetically-sealed gel partitions gliding over his buttocks. An experimental clench leaves him all too aware of the exam parting the valley between them. Another tug wrests the satiny scraps from his groin, and dignity is gone.

“Confirming that you followed grooming instructions,” FRIDAY chirps back to life. A scan runs down his chest to his knees, the beams flowing around his groin in slow detail. Tony bites down on the wide ring and achieves no more than the unmoving bar prodding his teeth.

Two beeps. “Satisfactory attention paid. Well done for your waxing, Mr. Stark.”

Two days ago he received an email hint from Steve to take care of his nether regions. They both prefer Tony smooth and bare, but he barely held an inkling the waxing would count for his Friday night fuck fest in the basement. He’s starting to realize the error of his ways.

Hydraulic hisses always put him on his toes, especially with a noticeable round hole absent of any armouring. His hips shift in futility and the metal plates corset his stomach to his hip bones, fitted perfectly to his trim athletic physique. They squeeze in and he can barely draw breath as the plates shift and slide around, constricting the narrowing vee of his torso to quite ludicrous proportions.

In smooth response, the translucent port slips in and centers on his cock with the aid of a dozen laser points. FRIDAY expertly maneuvers a tube overtop, and the slow removal of air pulls his fat dick out at a forty-five degree angle.

Tony loses track of time and his feet as the sheath sucks and pumps, pulsating to get the right amount of stretching and girth to his erect shaft. Already blood surges to the surface, leaving it a bright red. Steve loves the effect, but he hears another clank indicating two portions of the pump shell come together like a clam.

When they lock into place, the suit has a cylinder thicker around than a beer can jutting obscenely from its groin. Gold highlights imitate veins, and the serpentine meanders shine in the light. It looks patently ridiculous and erotic at the same time, which is exactly why Tony is glad he can’t see it.

Steve, sitting across the glass with the cup of coffee, most certainly can.

Obligatory monitoring software projects the training regimen in fine detail to the blond kicking his feet up on the table and watching. The tablet set by his elbow holds all sorts of interesting buttons and commands, allowing him to zone in on particular areas or readings. For this reason Tony is glad he’s blind to the outside world, restricted only to knowing his own responses to defilement.

“I swear you’re not happy unless you’re the size of a horse,” Steve says. The speakers make him crystal clear.

The next step is the one he’s needed the most practice to build up to. Prickles of cool gel trail over his exposed balls. A studded circlet anchors around each testicle, eased closer second by second. His breathing is thin and erratic, but still within acceptable margins.

In his chair, Steve stays glued to the vitals. One word from him halts the program or shuts down the activity altogether, but he waits for Tony to ride out the frisson of fear that instinctively comes with someone taking any kind of injection into their most sensitive anatomy.

FRIDAY carefully directs hair-fine needles to the surface, and they barely slip into the skin. Another fine spray wisps over his balls as the special compound Tony developed weeks ago is pumped in. The sensitizing effect will leave him dreadfully, acutely aware of every touch, all the better for the stimulation overload he and Steve both crave.

More drool runs down his chin as he moans, throaty and eager for the bindings that follow a minute later. Already his balls feel heavy and full, and the happy side effect of his research is an aphrodisiac plumbing the depths of molten warmth. Silicone snaps into place around his sack, spreading it apart, a snug fit that pulls down just slightly thanks to the binder anchoring on his suit.

No matter how much or little he moves, the pressure will be there, reminding him of his place to focus.

Steve puts down the empty coffee mug and shifts his own erect cock in his jeans. Today isn’t about him directly and he acts as the spotter as much as coach to his boyfriend, for all the getup is far more extravagant than anything he’d ever think up on his own.

He taps the tablet a few times, fully aware that Tony cannot see a thing other than a stream of data.

There's a smile, visible and audible together, so terribly sweet. “Thought I might make a few adjustments. Something to make the wait a bit more interesting.”

Tony tries to tip his head and gurgles a questioning noise. At once the HUD settles into a brightly lit scene in rich detail that frankly makes 4K look like primitive black and white TV from when Captain Rogers was a scrawny kid, not a strapping lad ladies and many men want to hurl themselves at and beg him to do terrible things.

 _Terrible things like completely wreck their eager boyfriend’s back holes._  
  
Tony grunts again when he realizes what he sees. Slithering wisps emerge from a dusty violet cloud, curling around powerful thighs. _His_ thighs. He watches as the powerful appendages wind their way higher and join the ones already wrapped around his upper thighs, intending to plunge into the starry puckered hole on full display.

His anus twitches in mute sympathy. Another squeeze around his cock forces him to stand at full, throbbing attention, completely untouchable by hand or by mouth. No matter how much he begs in garbled nonsense, his cock plays second fiddle.

“Something special,” Steve repeats himself, swishing a dial and turning it all the way to the left. In the movie, he’s pretty sure Tony can see two of those Chitauri tech tentacles starting to ream his sphincter in hypnotic ripples, fighting their way inside a narrow ring that refuses to give.

A bark from inside the suit announces the occupant’s awareness of his predicament. Six powerful levers flip Tony on his stomach and lift, suspending him high above the ground. The ridiculously long cylinder containing his pumped cock tips towards the floor, a hydraulic hose flowing away. Steve watches as another device in ridiculously strong pincers lines up for the borehole at the tip of the cylinder. The design allows some expansion, just enough for a long, whippy stand of beads to slot into place.

Tony only hears the clack without registering. He is far too fixated on the elastic wonder of his pucker opening up for two wisps about as wide around as three fingers pounding his ass on the projected screen. The initial stroke of pliable silicone and plastic against the helmet of his engorged cock goes without notice, but not when it lines up on the little slit.

Steve is so fucking good to him. Perverse and perfect, the golden boy is guiding the plug into his cock one grudgingly slow centimeter at a time.

Every tap on the screen stuffs a bead into the straining man’s urethral tube, the spray of lube reducing most of the friction. Minimal resistance meets the plug as it slides deeper, absent the usual pull and push Steve prefers when trying to make Tony lose his damn mind.

He still blushes when speaking to the suit, but past encounters prove that Tony is reduced to slag, panting and drooling in fitful anticipation, hearing his rolling tenor in the throes of arousal.

“I know you need something in that greedy cock while you’re being trained. Next week we’re going up to the wider beads.” The twin to the plug mounted in Tony’s armour sits in the drawer beside the blond’s knee, and the even larger string -- something worthy of being pushed into his ass rather than his cock -- buried under the bed in the penthouse.

Tony’s heart rate spikes and settles, the restraints in the suit clamping down to keep him nicely placed where he needs to be. Two dozen more laser points are tracked by the computer for every micromovement, and the last piece de resistance is lined up to it.

If he didn’t know better, Steve would be up on his feet breaking the door down. An industrial grade arm that ought to belong on the space station rises from its nook in the floor. The hydraulically driven shafts can maneuver an antique porcelain teacup or smash three tons of material together. The terminal end features a smooth length of polished silicone as long as Steve’s arm to the elbow, continuously coated in a shining layer of lube.

The Magna is a bright, ridiculously cheerful sapphire blue and stamped by a white star on the side. Any resemblance to Captain America’s uniform is purely intentional. Steve’s hand slides under his waistband and pulls his cock up, even as he loosens his jeans. At this point, stroking isn’t only optional but mandatory. He fists his shaft loosely while Tony watches his own violation and passionate cries on the screen.

His balls ache around the binder and the plug seated incredibly deep in his cock cannot be avoided. Tony’s eyes water as much as his mouth. He just about counts every bead pushing up against the interior of his rock-hard member, and the very notion the next plug has spheres twice as large would make him copiously leak.

The occasional suction on the cock sleeve keeps him engorged and thick, but the tight elastic ring at the root prevents him from boiling over. There will be time for that. He should know; he designed every element of Mark 81 himself.

Relaxing for Magna is near impossible. The tapering tip is nothing special other than formulated to feel and look like Steve’s. If he could rear back to push himself against the glans in greedy welcome, he would. Unfortunately he is lucky to have an inch in either direction.

The ache in his jaw throbs. He slurps at the gag, helpless to resist salivating freely. Eyes roll back as the HUD identifies his shift in attention and freezes the frame on a glimpse of Tony onscreen being sucked by Captain America on his knees.

That’s his signal. The dildo prods lightly at his fluttering hole, and relentlessly corkscrews and circles to drill its way in.

“Training is coming along nicely,” Steve comments, his voice as near as Tony’s earlobe even though he knows the man sits separated by a glass wall. “Your hole is just spreading like nothing to take that fake cock. You’re going to be fucking it like a pro in no time.”

For a man who publically won’t even tolerate cussing, filthy language is a song to Tony’s depraved heart. He feels the slow expansion of his hole to take the silicone toy, the lube sprayed on as it teases him. If two blunt fingers were rolling around the rim of his hole and tickling him from the inside together, they would have the same kind of effect. He twitches and arches his back, presenting himself as the metal partition accommodates the toy by spreading his buttocks apart.

Cameras offer a bird’s eye view of that beautiful pink rosette under siege. Tearing into a lube package, the blond spread the contents on his hand and drops the foil onto the table. Steve’s fist steadily rises and drops, a comfortable rate for him. Not too slow for a tease, not too fast to blow.

“One inch,” FRIDAY chimes.

The Magna reaches its maximum depth at a girth of one inch, and refuses to go further, though a good foot and some extends past Tony’s reddened ring. The machine refuses to advance, screwing in slow rotations while his inner walls flutter around the fat insertion. He would be leaking freely without his plug in place, without the sleeve starting to hum to churn whatever precum is roiling in his reddened balls.

“I think you can take more than that,” Steve says.

He can hear the muffled assent. Two buttons speared with his fingers bring the tablet screen to life. Then he settles in to watch his boyfriend get positively reamed.

It’s all on Tony to control, though it hardly feels that way suspended in place with his legs apart, thighs lewdly gripped to leave his entire groin exposed. He whines into the gag as the fat cock slides right out of him and glides back in, a minute of slow, steady pumping.

His head spins. So much for measuring the incremental expansion he programmed in, to maximise the shocked response of his nerve endings to the stretch. That’s what he wants, the fullness and the decadence of being plumbed deep and wide. Instantly the helmet complies by bringing up a split screen of his anus taking a pounding from the Chitauri created tentacles, each one of the long tendrils pulling almost fully out while thin wisps grip the rim of his hole to create a small but profound gape.

It’s not for nothing the other side features Steve using his thumbs to pry Tony’s fucked hole tenderly open. “Look at that, two inches,” he says.

“Next time we go for three.” Steve sighs, his voice thick with awe and honeyed.

In the recording, his hole twitches in a futile effort to close back up. It’s beautiful to see the tender kiss placed on his buttock, the fingers prying further apart to show the white cum glistening on his rim.

“I want you wide enough for me to get my fist inside, Tony. Yeah, that sound good? We stretch your hole on that fake cock until you’re pleading to be fisted. You’ll be trained to stretch for my knuckles.”

Tony moans in tandem with the toy thoroughly buried in his ass, jerking in slow, grinding strokes on the walnut-sized swelling of his prostate. It’s expanding. He feels so full and it hardly has been five minutes, the point when the programming overrides the Magna’s initial girth.

The recording from their last session has been his personal jack off material for two weeks. Steve’s fist would be a miracle, his hands so much bigger than Tony’s petite rosebud. But he dreams about sliding closed around the wrist and kissing Captain Rogers as they both become awkwardly entangled and rough, eager, rutting like animals, like teenagers afraid to be caught.

Steve murmurs, “Go to two inches, FRIDAY,” and the Magna inflates to the steady stream of air pumped through. He loves watching the big shaft expand, filling out visibly as Tony’s hole tries to accommodate it. The way the crinkles straighten out and the end balloons is depraved and gorgeous.

Grunts in steady percussive waves tell him his boyfriend is nearly ready for a fucking, but he has to wait at least another five minutes before getting to that. He slows his own pace, admiring the way the dildo slides in against the resistance and the spectacular muscle caves in a little. Never will he tire seeing that surrendering, or the way another inch plunges into the man’s rectum.

Tony screams for more when he cannot escape the pressure on his prostate, his gaze blurring between watching Steve rim his gaping pink star on screen and the two tendrils plunging back in to his own back-bowing pleasure on the other half of the monitor.

His cock burns and his ring stings, his balls two plutonium weights the size of the moon. Every time the Magna snuggles its way deeper, it jostles the binder securing the root of his cock and his sack, reminding him how big it is, how terrifyingly huge as it stretches him as wide as Steve and he want.

There reaches a point when his resistance prevents it from smoothly drilling in. They’ve been here before, 2.38 inches, the natural initial breach point.

Tony struggles against anything wider even immobilized and in his favourite position, stomach down and so, so prone to his masterpiece. He squeezes down on the shaft and lube oils up the surface, but still the slow expansion shoots pain through his hole and up his ass.

Steve leans forward, licking his lips. “Come on, baby. Open up for that monster. You gotta work to get it in.”

The rigid arms of the Mark 81 suit prevent Tony from gaining any leverage, exactly as intended. Gravity alone gets anywhere and the blue silicone cock takes its own time, a pitiless creation that cares nothing for eager moans or stifled cries inside the enclosed helmet. Its withdrawal pulls Tony’s red, dilated ring out along its retreating surface, a sight that deserves to be recorded and watched again and again. The tireless machine presses the shaft in, sinking through a sea of lube. He groans again, benchmarks for depth and stretching to it less than desirable.

It hurts more than it should, or the stubborn oaf is holding out against what he really wants. Putting his money on the latter, Steve asks, “Boson?”

Their safeword in play gets a defiant, shrill shriek. A definite _no_ then. Keep going.

“Open up, Tony. Open up for me. Let me see you take that up to the star.” The encouragement may be needed to steer him safely through the fugue and the protesting twinges sparking like downed power lines. He can take it. They both know this, but the maddening, brilliant technologist wouldn’t be a Stark if he didn’t make things harder for himself.

Another groan. Love in Tony’s curdled response matches the sweat pouring along his tailbone and the writhing inside his bindings, unyielding metal holding him in the most secure of embraces. It’s not the same as Captain Rogers holding him against his broad chest at night, but for these purposes, the tight fit will do.

He wants Steve to lap his stretched rim and suck his cock. He wants Steve’s cock down his throat, and that massive dildo pounding into his ass, all at once.Some things, not even the serum allows Captain America to do, but the delirious cadence of Tony’s thoughts blows past the possible into erotic fantasy. On _needing_ like his life depends on it.  

Somewhere out there his boyfriend sits in a chair and drinks coffee while he gets his ass reamed by a contraption that strokes the dildo unbearably slow and deep, plunging to the point his breath hitches and then dragging back out. Had he the choice, he would impale himself back on it. 

His HUD screen lights up again with a new image, this time the wriggling penetration of a fat plum tendril that oddly matches the duet rolling and twisting deep inside him. The white-fire burns up his nerve endings when the dipping shaft rolls in a full circle, the natural curve widening out his hole, and that proper stuffed feeling builds as another pneumatic puff plumps out the middle.

Inside the glove of his suit is a sensor that reacts to the rapid tapping, Morse code. Just enough brainpower left for this, he spells out _f-a-s-t_ twice. His index finger convulses of its own accord at the humming vibration wrapped around his sleeved cock inside the candy-apple cylinder. His back tries to arch, his breath wheezing through the ring gag holding his mouth wide, a tormented tease rather than the anal training phase he expects.

Steve would smile but his gaze is rapt upon Tony’s expression, the gaunt lines of pleasure carved into his face projected across the tempered glass screen. While fixated on that greedy cock -- it should be drooling as much as his mouth, except for the precautions taken to plug him up -- Stark never notices the humming purr filling the mechanized piston behind him. All at once the Magna springs to life and pulls out the fattened, inflated dildo from his ass and slams it back in. The gripping arms sway to give forward momentum and then pull him into place on the backstroke, positioning him with exquisite accuracy for another precise, deep thrust that plows further in.

It’s a devious setup, using his own lubricated momentum to slide in reverse against the object of his anal violation. Whites show behind fluttering lashes as Tony’s eyes roll back. He makes a litany of incoherent sounds best described as lust babble, his tongue peeping out past the black ring holding that smart mouth open. Steve uses that as his guide when his boyfriend is finally far gone enough to require a fair intervention.

His pride shines through his warm tone. “God, Tony, you’re doing it, you’re up to two and three quarters,” he croons. At once the bound man’s face flushes and he blinks, coming back from whatever far shore holds him ablaze in lust.

 _More, more, all of it._ Whatever garbled words escape his mouth are purely unintelligible as he heaves against the gelled padding, a modern gambeson to his hypertech suit of armour. Tony can feel only warm fire around his gaping ring and the shaft becomes the focus of his world, humming in tune with the soft, powerful vibrators buzzing through his immensely thick shaft. He’s only taken something this big before with the Chitauri device that sodomized him into mindless bliss and being a quarter-inch from his end goal is too much.

Surrendering himself should be so easy. He whines and grunts as another centimeter burrows deeper, the powerful metal appendage measuring him with precision to start angling down where every movement blows shards of pleasure into the stratosphere. His prostate cannot escape direct and indirect stimulus, so his body rattles to the very foundations of numbing pleasure. Once again his eyes roll back.  
Three and a half solid minutes of fucking has him hanging in space, the lead weight between his legs and the boiling storm between his puckered ring the whole of his world. He notices nothing but the stinging heat receding again while the Magna rams that dildo good and deep, accelerating to the pounding Tony begs for in his darkest moments and Steve whispers about in his ear.

“Tony.” How long has Steve been calling? Doesn’t matter as he blinks back the red tsunami of splintering bliss, another abortive orgasm. “You’re taking it perfectly. My best guy. I knew you could.”

His heart pounds in his chest under the praise. If he could grin, he would, but his face is wet and body shaking with the force of the collision now, the strokes so perfectly timed and poised to make him feel like the machine’s slave, a mere sheath, so full, _so perfectly full_. Nothing then prepares him for the next stroke lodging in all the way and humming powerfully, instead of tenderizing his rosette to a soft, glistening bloom.

Before he can whine, a hand lands on his shoulder, hard enough to echo through the external plates. Captain Rogers leaves no one behind, most certainly not someone incapable of moving or seeing straight.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” He purrs it close enough for Tony to hear through the helmet, blind as he is. A surprise? That hardly registers before the machine hisses, and something impossibly thickens in his ass, right near the spread ring. Alarm weakly sparks and fades, his curiosity a bubble that pops.

“Wait for it.”

What else can he do? HIs upturned ass twinges and the machine obliges, spreading his legs a little wider apart. That shaft buried inside him moves again, rotating so slowly, like the moon traces a silver path through the night sky. And then he somehow recognizes changing proportions, a dome pushing his hole outwards, and his walls clinging tight to the rounding surface. The sphere fills while a stream of wet lube leaks deeper than he imagined possible.

The shock hits him; he blurts out a cry. “Unngh!”

Light invades when the faceplate on his helmet pulls away, revealing his sweat-sheened face and damp hair. Head hanging, Steve’s big hand cups under his jaw and lifts him up. Saliva puddles onto the ground and he blinks, a complete mess and still shuddering when the twin points of vibration appear to converge on one spot wedged between them, notably his prostate. That cum-filled point is squeezed under the fat, forming ball and the harmonics trailing up and down his cock, leaving him delirious and desperate.

“That’s right, baby,” Steve murmurs, lining up the slick, smeared tip of his cock with the bullseye hole in the gag. He needs a bit of patience to feed his shaft into the warm mouth without choking out Tony too much, though soon enough his gliding strokes will be bringing out that gagging gurgle they both treasure so much. “Your ass is being knotted.”

For a moment Tony wonders if he’s passed out and come to. The big knot inside his ass feels like a grapefruit or a basketball attached to a baseball bat, a flexible bat starting to shift around in minute jerks. It seems to have a symbiotic connection with his needs, pummeling his pliable ass and then calming, bearing down, giving that immense fullness that sends one bead of precum leaking out around the beads in his urethra.

Sucking cock is barely a possibility and Steve knows, supporting his head tenderly between his hands while driving his shaft inside. Nothing stops his tongue from rolling around that huge interloper, lapping at the veined sides or trying to flirt with the crown that batters the back of his throat. He hasn’t got much of a gag reflex but so much drool leaks out the noise sounds pornographic, a soundtrack for a face-fuck if there ever was one.

This is happiness and this is bliss, this is profane and degenerate. He loves it in every way. Another twang of elastic seems to snap and he gags noislly, throat milking Steve’s dick in ripples when the large dildo slides back as far as the knot allows and smoothly plows forward an inch or two. The back and forth sway does him in, another orgasm ascending into the stratosphere even if he can’t come, even if his balls are burning hot with the need to spray his seed into a willing, hot mouth.

Not long to wait as he shuttles between the dildo and the living, warm, iron-hard phallus popping into his throat. Tony hangs in space, forced by the gag to take the full length. Tears run down his cheeks, or maybe perspiration, or something else, but nothing matters except the mineral tang of precum spurting on his tongue. He can swallow, about the only thing he can control, besides yielding to the dildo rotating so deliciously fucking deep in his ass.

A broad thumb wipes away his tear through the heady smack of hips into his face, the ragged pace warning how close Steve gets. He grabs the Mark 81 suit, other hand at the back of Tony’s head, and the last few strokes jounce him around to the ceiling. Steve moans, a long sound torn free from his throat, as he explodes in four immense waves of hot, tangy salt.

Most goes straight into his stomach, the last bit splashed on his mouth when Steve pulls out. He loves the heat and the taboo, the wanton act reducing a little of that shining perfection that haloes Captain America’s name and image much of the time.

All that Steve can do not to collapse, going instead to his knees. He gasps for air and cups Tony’s face in his. Fumbling around releases the gag, the ring immediately cast aside. Tony’s mouth hangs open anyways as he mumbles incomprehensibly, pleading and whining at once, in time with the dildo grinding into his prostate.

“I know.” A kiss to his brow grants permission, even as Steve reaches under him to pull away the metal cylinder. His engorged cock fills the inner tube, pumped to capacity, slurped and sucked by a mechanical sheath. One more twist disengages the tube from the tight ring sealed around his base, and they both stare in wonder at how full and hard he’s become.

“Steve,” Tony moans drunkenly.

The watch on the table beeps. The glass screens both flash a red message from FRIDAY, though it takes a few moments to parse what it means.

 _Mission active. Assemble at the Avengers Tower in 10 minutes_.

Half a year later, or what feels like it, the blond gets unsteadily to his feet. He swipes at the tablet and motion flurries around them. The shaft separates from the dildo, leaving only its thick connector sticking out from Tony’s hole. Metal folds in on itself, the appendage moving aside.

Tony barely finds the strength to lift his head when the arms supporting him swivel his body upright, bearing the arc reactor dead center to a thin shaft of pure light. At once the drones swing into action, bearing plates that correspond to his thighs and hips. One of those locks around the base of the dildo, concealing it, locked into place on the metal connector to prevent the dildo from disappearing any further into his rectum. Another set of plates cushion his erection against his belly, suspiciously wide enough for his balls after Steve tenderly peels off the binders.

His wild eyes seek out Steve, who grins as bright as the sun.

“Leave the plug in. We don’t have time otherwise.”

“Fu-... Fuck,” he moans.

Steve leans forward to kiss him, long and hard. “After we save the world. Avengers assemble, Stark.”


	5. Taking What You're Given

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve grinds against his face. “I bet your greedy little hole still isn’t satisfied.”
> 
> Any reminder of Tony's stretched ring produces a weak squeeze, though the dildo long ago broke down any resistance to soft elastic twinges.
> 
> “I’m so full,” he replies, trying so hard not to whine. They can both hear the tension, surely, the way his voice thins out.
> 
> “Think you could take more for me?” 
> 
> “Yes.” The answer doesn’t even require thinking, though a frisson of terror slides along his spine in slow, cool trickles. How can his stretched pucker possibly accommodate more?
> 
> A rumble of approval tapers away. “I was hoping you’d say that. I came prepared.”

"Get on your knees, slut.” 

When your captain commands you, hesitation is not an option, no matter the circumstances.

Sparks still hang in the air and his gauntleted wrists ache, the repulsors at his palms dimly glowing from the beams. Heat radiates through the diodes and into the nanocircuitry that feeds excess power back through the secondary systems in the Mark 81.

 _Mark 82, at this rate_.

The modifications on his mainline suit aren’t meant for combat but an entirely different, completely depraved purpose contained within a lab. Tony grimaces behind the glistening mask that conceals his face, and he skids across the pocked asphalt to a halt.

The landing knocks the breath from him and briefly distracts him from his surroundings, a tangle of an unimpressive industrial landscape on the outskirts of Harlem. Impossible not to feel the punch to his guts when he thought every nerve fully numbed by now.

Apparently not. His eyes water from the immense girth of the dildo advancing even deeper into his rectum, squeezing out that much more space. The relief isn’t quick enough to come, easing out a quarter inch from his stretched hole along with a fresh drip of warm lube.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_. Tony’s fairly sure then and there he will faint, passing out facefirst onto the ground in an uncoordinated tangle of limbs.

For a moment, gravity punches him forward while warning systems flash orange and topaz in front of his streaming eyes. Jostling within ruins whatever inner center of balance managed to come back online.

He holds his arms out stiff in front of him, and the navy-clad soldier grabs him by the sleek cherry vambrace. Forward momentum comes to an abrupt end, stabilizing his landing to a convenient stuttering end.

“Captain America. Heart rate one hund--” FRIDAY immediately brings up a scrolling churn of biostatistics across the helm heads-up display, when he hardly needs the extraneous data.

“I know that,” he mutters to the AI. “Get it off my screen.”

Flashing blue eyes fix him through the swooped leather frame of Cap’s mask, a golden eyebrow arching in eloquent inquiry.

_Shit. I’m already ten seconds late and counting._

So much for the polished finish on the heavily armoured boots. Paint chips adorn the cracked concrete as he drops in place, the thin layer of gel adhered to his bare shins absorbing the impact and redistributing the vibrations throughout the rest of the suit.

And because the Mark 81 has very specific properties, those gathered vibrations travel up half-moon channels in the metal that converge on a round base between the rear plates protecting his ass. The hum roars right up the stem of the fat toy stuffed into Tony’s ass, jiggling his highly abused prostate at hummingbird speeds.

Captain America blurs into a silhouette against the smoke-stained nightfall as tears catch on his eyelashes. He brings a hand up to the side of his helm, disengaging the reflective ombre film over the faceplate.

“Faster next time,” Steve says, admonishment trickling through the stern timbre bleeding over his tenor voice.

“Sorry, Cap.” Too quiet, but his words slur slightly even to his own ringing ears.

Cheeks flushed and dark hair clinging to his perspiring brow, Tony knows he looks like a mess. The heat in his skin owes only a little to the exertion of their complete mission, and far more to serving the blond, strapping man on his knees.  

He shuffles forward gingerly, all too aware of the way the sleek armour forces his thighs apart. Even the slow, cautious approach wedges the sleek plates flush up against his buttocks and the large insertion plumbs his back hole every time he even thinks of shifting.

The stifling helmet traps heat and radiates it downwards, its inner cooling systems still coming online now he no longer circles over the rooftops looking for warped scientists gathering under the fractured HYDRA banner. All that translates into the acute awareness of his cursed state: the plug shifting around in his ringed cock has done nothing to alleviate a severe case of blue balls over the last hour. He’s grateful once again for the foresight to update the protocols to adjust the tension now and then, allowing his circulation to continue unabated without actually satisfying his desperate need to come hard and unceasing like the slut he is.

His engorged, pumped shaft lies flat against his belly in a cradle specially designed to accommodate its enhanced proportions, but the inflamed heat throbbing like a drumbeat in his erection doesn’t distract, it shakes him every other second.

Steve looms in front of him, tall and proud, the soot streak on his pant leg indicative of a roll taken through the greasy kitchen of a shuttered restaurant in the final chase. That’s probably why he smells faintly of charcoal and bourbon above the clean leather and sandalwood spice always on his skin.

That particular scent wraps its invisible tendrils around his mind and submerges him to the depths of the gutter. Instantly he throbs in his contained state, a pang of his cock reminding him exactly what he wants and needs.  

“Tony.”

His name brings him to attention, licking his lips in glorious expectation. He’s on his knees and creeping forward. _Prepared to confess my debased needs before the holiest of men._

“O Captain, bless me before we sin.” He dares to curl that smug grin, white teeth already parting in anticipation.

The words have the anticipated effect, rattling through the blond like a tuning fork struck particularly hard. Something about that parallel forces Steve to reach for Tony’s shoulders and pull his face against that broad thigh. Nothing extinguishes the roaring lust and satisfaction for slipping under that near unshakeable composure.

Tony swallows hard, nuzzling the length of the thickening cock pressed against the dark pant leg. That steel shaft should be snug in his hole instead of the monstrous toy wedged inside him.

“Should I drag you off to my motorcycle?” The throaty purr tells him all he needs to know. Steve only adopts that husky burr in the throes of distinct arousal.

Tony strains against the armour as he sucks and licks at the fabric. Dense enough to resist being cut, the weave is permeable enough for his hot breath to soak through. Steamy warmth coats the hard length he rubs his cheek against, lips imprinting a row of hard kisses.

The slow grind back into his mouth encourages him to open wider, dragging his tongue back and forth along its length until his saliva stains the dappled path. His jaw aches at the corners, a reminder of his absent ring gag lying somewhere on the floor of the tower laboratory.

Those firm hands cover the back of the helm, roughly sliding him along the hardened outline of Steve’s cock. Friction burns the curve of his wet tongue, lips scoured with every grinding thrust of those strong hips. A groan announces some approval for using his teeth, and once he has that, Tony sure as hell doesn’t plan to stop.

Not on his life. He continues dragging his bottom teeth along the ridges, sculpting out every perfect curved line. They meet in that messy worship in the middle of the street when almost anyone could wander by, or wonder why he kneels before America’s greatest hero, worshipping and begging with his mouth.

Steve grinds against his face. “I bet your greedy little hole still isn’t satisfied.”

Any reminder of his stretched ring produces a weak squeeze, though the dildo long ago broke down any resistance to soft elastic twinges. He isn’t sure that much ability to even clamp down remains to him since the barely yielding girth dilates him almost to his maximum proportions. If not for the Mark 81’s overlapping abdominal scaling, the telltale bulge of the toy's bell-shaped glans would probably be outlined against his navel.

“I’m so full,” he replies, trying so hard not to whine. They can both hear the tension, surely, the way his voice thins out.

Blue eyes glitter. Steve gazes down and drops those fabled promises almost carelessly.

“Think you could take more for me?”  

“Yes.” The answer doesn’t even require thinking, though a frisson of terror slides along his spine in slow, cool trickles. How can his stretched pucker possibly accommodate more?

A rumble of approval tapers away. “I was hoping you’d say that. I came prepared.”

The Boy Scout motto, _always be prepared_ , of course, applies to the best Boy Scout of them all. Tony cranes his head back just in time for a cerulean ball to bounce off the patrician slope of his nose.

A procession of small, bright aquamarine orbs connected on a flexible stick or string float in front of him. He cannot quite make out how they are fused, but his delirious mind is already counting their number and measuring the wanton suppleness. Instantly he knows where those balls are intended to go.

“M-my ass,” he stutters out, a protest that earns him a casual smack of the toy against his cheekbone. Rose sweeps over the high relief, no real damage done.

Steve presses the bead to his mouth and what else can he do but suck? Warm silicone rests on his tongue, and he captures the sphere against his teeth to stroke it across the erection filling his sight.

Rough leather gently soothes his stinging cheek, painted in encouraging whorls that eventually force his mouth wider for sloppy kisses that maneuver the balls around to pleasure both of them.

Steve watches for several long minutes before he responds. Behind them, the commotion settles to a dull roar, the whirring engines of the Quinjet signalling someone rounding up the last of their targets. Time is short then, but long enough for his purposes.

“I have plans to get my fist in your hole tonight, Stark.”  
  
The very words freeze him up on the spot and Tony squeezes down on the fat cock rammed up against his thinned, red pucker. Pushed back, his legs splay wide apart to force his full weight right on his backside, particularly the metal armour lined up straight with his parted buttocks. He spreads wider, tipping back to jam the last stubby inch of the base up against his taut anus.

They’ve never even tried that final taboo, the most ever managed being six of their fingers together, fighting to stretch him wide for Tony's camera. Suddenly the purpose for pulling him out for a mission that Natasha, Clint, and Sam had well in hand -- and all those calls for aerial acrobatics while he was on the verge of boiling -- clicks into perfect focus.

“Bastard,” he mutters. Steve only smiles that confident, assured smile. “You’ve been loosening me up.”

“You were doing that on your own. You designed the Magna to stretch you to the fullest. I’m pushing you to the natural conclusion.”

Both hands come down on his shoulders to push him back onto that heavy toy drilled into his ass and he really does start to pant loudly, suffering whenever the unbearable pressure rolls around his prostate. The beads slap against his chestplate, keeping time while he groans.

“Take it.” Ever the master, the blond’s coaching works him through that tight resistance as he is forced down around the wide base locked into place. His fluttering ring puts up a meager resistance, burning as Steve shoves him down in small, quick thrusts. “Take that big cock in your hole. The way you’re holding out, Tony, makes me think you want an angry Bruce bending you over.”

Big, green, and uncontrollable. Bruce would wreck him in a heartbeat, doubly if the Mark 81 were locked into place to immobilize him. He frantically grinds in circles on the ground, not sure what's more frightening, that he might just want that or he might get more than he could possibly manage. “I can’t take that much. He’d destroy me.”

“I’d never let him hurt you. Just give you that gape you keep begging me for.”  

Tony’s eyes start to roll back at the thought of a massive cock replacing the dildo ramming him now, the impacts forcing the toy to hum in a cum-churning frequency. His tongue protrudes past his parted lips as he rocks and grinds to the maximum depth of the Magna he’s ever taken.

Incoherent grunts and groans pour from his throat, a sweet cadence of surrender. The Chitauri broke him in, and now this, reamed in anticipation of Steve working his fingers good and deep.

Two hard taps against the chest plate announce his attention, the arc reactor glowing softly to keep up with his rising heart rate.

Dimly he lifts his head and Steve feeds him the thin plug again, pushing the beads all the way to the back of his throat while he hastily sucks and slurps.

 _When is he using those?_ The very thought of riding the Victory as the powerful engine revs sends a pang of need against his ringed cock, testing the firm band preventing his pumped shaft from shrinking at all.

“Disengage segment five,” he mutters at the AI, and nanotech crawls back to expose his naked groin in all its demanding glory. Cold air rushes in through the vanishing webs retreating into the surrounding plates.

Steve immediately reaches down as he crouches, pulling Tony’s phallus away to admire the secured tip of the plug rammed down his length. Copious lube streaks his plum crown, mixed with what little precum managed to leak out.

“Good. Now let’s give you what you asked for.”

Tony practically chokes on his tongue when two fingers pinch the tip of the plug and pull, extracting the string of balls up his urethra. The muscles burn slightly after so long nestled around their prize, and his head drops back when Steve pushes the sound back as deep as it can go.

_No please no, please fuck, fuck, fuck._

A glance confirms Tony is lost to the world except for the slow-order fucking his rigid cock takes. He twirls the sound slowly to get a good stretch inside, admiring how even that much makes the slit gape and the whole reddened length twitch, bobbing for more.

Fulfilling his boyfriend’s libido can be an impossible task. He pulls the pliable sound up fast to a gurgled wail, and slowly, slowly forces it back down. Tony thrusts up into his fist, forcing him to tighten his grip around the swollen midsection for a handhold, which of course presses down on the bubbled spheres inside. The pressure alone sets off stars in front of Stark's eyes, catapulting him into another denied orgasm.

Several jerking pumps of his fist confirm those suspicions about how much Tony appreciates his training; the man shakes and bites his lip white to avoid screaming into the night about his need to cum.

Leisurely plumbing of those darkest depravities takes place while the Quinjet hovers a building away and traffic slowly filters through the disrupted neighbourhood, thin though it is. A drone sweeps past through the gloom, headlight strobing over them.

A foil packet torn open pours another fresh coating of lube all over the smooth head of Tony’s inflamed cock. The earlier cock pumping has diminished in no way at all, and his shaft is positively enormous, accentuated by its hot temperature and the beads sticking out from the tip. No secret about his defilement is concealed. The whirring fan blades of the drone adjust and the cameras focus in on the throbbing length, the sound halfway buried inside and sinking down into the stretched slit.

Tony barely responds to the light flashing over him, only grinding his hips to keep the deeply planted toy right there, right where he wants, pushing on every last niche of his inner walls. Without the bindings at the root and his balls, the armour would be splattered in a river of his molten cum.

Steve nods at him. He slowly turns Tony's face to the pitiless, unblinking eye and the drone captures his mouth opening in a soundless howl when the sound slides out completely.

Only for a moment is that weeping, lube-drenched emptiness captured on digital uplinks. It feels to him like a lifetime. He wants to scream his soul out for release.

With a surgeon’s deliberation, the second, larger sound takes the place of the first. Pressure builds on his tip as the ball flirts with the lubed slit. He dreads pushing up to meet the rounded sphere, but the only way he’s getting his prize is by inviting it in forcibly. He can impale himself or he can wait, while Captain America holds the offering lightly against his glans.

The choice isn’t really a choice at all.

He eases his hips up and the precious height forces his cheeks to squeeze together. In turn, he tightens up around the girth of the toy stretching his anal ring, pushing its way out a little. The loss makes him cry out to Steve.

“Open up, slut.” The magic words are right there as the aquamarine bead stretches him to unimaginable heights, even if it’s not that much larger around than his last plug. That sphere is closer in size to the Chitauri void’s slim tendrils when they knotted up his stuffed dick, its comparative enormity making him shake in a chatter of metal against the ground.

Maybe Steve senses his boyfriend is at a breaking point, able to give no more. That he endured this much is shocking, really.

A fist curling around the base of the fat shaft is no relief, merely constricting the wide silicone cock-ring even further. Dull taps to Tony's balls erupt like fireworks. If he could _just_ _cum_ , which is impossible.

Tony’s breath and vision seize as the first sphere of the sound plunges into his needy cock.

_It’s so big. It’s so fucking big._

Of course, he wants it all, and jerks himself higher against the second of twelve pretty spheres. The next round orb squeezes in and reveals its presence inside, pushed right up against the underside of his shaft. Steve can’t help but to lean down and lick the rippled ridge, sucking on one of the entrapped globes as he pumps the sound up and down.

Incoherent noises are already filling the air. Only because his arms support him can Tony stay up in the first place; otherwise, he would be lying back against the curb fucking the air, in turn taking his fucking -- his cock stretching, his training -- properly. More of the blue silicone vanishes into him, a row of neat, orderly bumps stretching his horizons and his urethra until just the last one sticks out rudely.

He doesn’t know of his success, his face a rictus of pleasure and blue gaze practically empty, the ideal cockslut pushed beyond his limits. Steve gives his cock a few slaps and it stands up rigidly for the drone camera, properly thick and dark as the surrounding armour. Beautiful.

A gentle stroke to Tony's face hardly distracts him from staring at the middle ground, keening when the contact of the touch ends. Steve leans down to pick him up, difficult as the awkward weight of the armour might be. Forcing him to walk would be unnecessarily cruel.

His training demands all he can give, and Tony loves the demanding stretch all the way to his prostate as his bare cock wobbles stiffly. The drone accompanies them right back to the motorcycle tucked away down a side lane, as though it were always placed there to wait for their departure.

“I think we’ll take the scenic way back,” says Steve. “Nice night for a ride.”

He only manages to groan as he’s mounted atop the back of the bike. The seat robs him of breath as it forces that plug back into his hole. When Steve settles in front, he twists around to lightly slap Tony’s plugged cock back against his belly.  
  
“Fu. Fu... “

Fondling his balls is incredibly intense, and enough to overload his system again. Both heavy testes have a motherlode of cum to unleash, and they won’t be doing that until Steve is ready to drain them.

The blond smiles. “Seal yourself up. I don’t want any of that to go to waste before you’re milked tonight.”

He loves Steve Rogers more than life itself. A jerky motion forces the nanobots to reform his armour again in preparation for their ride. They weave together and keep his plugged shaft secure, out of reach, and fully exposed to the powerful growls from the engine. Every little vibration rattles through him. It'll be all he can do just to hold onto Steve's waist until they reach their destination.

He’d rather be nowhere else right now.


	6. Make Or Break

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony's pride breaks and he begs for what he wants. Steve enlists help to fulfill the next stage of Tony's size queen training.

Endless stretches of open road call to some part of Steve’s soul, for all he is a city boy, a kid from Brooklyn. Put him on that Victory Ignition motorcycle of his, and he seeks the nearest horizon.

A tunnel of branches arching over them almost removes the reality he drives through Long Island instead of a winding upstate highway hundreds of miles away. Fields and farmhouses hem in a two-lane road rutted to the point of being gravel stuck together by a bit of tar and not much else.

The blond sets his boots to the pegs, leaning back a little. His recline only tips so far despite the deep, generous curve of the saddle. The prominent metal cylinder lined up to his tailbone digs in through his leather coat, and the cool, unyielding presence connects to the rest of a _Mark 81_ exosuit separated from him by inches.

Luscious cherry red armour wraps around his waist, slung low along his beltline and locked into place where the fused fingerplates formed an arch. Every bounce of the motorcycle transmits up the rigid plates into the passenger.

If not for that ingenious locking mechanism created by adjusting nanotech, Tony would have spilled out onto the asphalt about an hour back. He barely manages to keep himself upright. The locked mechanisms of the suit keep him stiff and vertical, the better to take the huge dildo impaling his ass at its greatest depth.

Steve’s position allows for maximum control of the heavily weighed-down motorcycle, at the expense of his stuffed and plugged boyfriend gaining any relief. The uneven street acts like cobbles, jouncing them both upon the sport suspension wound tight and firm.

Weaving between the potholes left after a manic freeze-thaw cycle, Tony slaloms from one whimpering high to another. When the bike tilts at a ten degree angle, he sways to the side with Steve. His arms hold firm to the narrow taper of his waist, slid under Cap’s blue, red, and white shield.

The shield’s bottom rim occasionally deflects off the cylindrical armouring concealing his ringed, sound-stuffed cock from touch. Gel inserts engulfing his throbbing shaft provide the perfect medium for every little vibration, massaging him constantly from stem to gaping slit.

Partway through the ride he lost his voice and any coherent sounds now originating from his mouth are garbled whimpers fed right into Steve’s ear thanks to a wireless headphone. The humming rev of the engine when he works the clutch almost simultaneously increases the cadence and urgency of the moans, a beautiful sound over the rushing air and passing night.

Each jump of the digits on the tachometer breaks the dusky fugue Tony drifts through.

“Unh! Fff.. Fuuu…”

He can do little but vocalize his pleasure from two dozen points of attack. Plugged by the monstrous dildo, he feels the resisting, thick weight bobbling against his prostate for every rumble of the tires across pitted cracks and ruts. His hole mostly adjusts to the occasional dips dropping him onto the flared base that mashes up in a circular metal plug against his abused rim.

In some debased corner of his mind still clinging to logic, he wonders what will happen when Steve finally extracts the _Magna_ dildo out of his ass.

“Doing good,” Steve’s voice ripples through the helmet’s set. The AI filters out the wind noise picked up by the mic. “That last bump plugged you deep, didn’t it? I bet you’re going to be ready to go soon as we get home.”

Another mile marker slides past, jade bright from the xenon headlight. They flash through a brief intersection and the engine pours on speed for the straightaway angling down. Only a modest incline but the pressure goes forward in turn, pressing Tony up against the shield and, more importantly, his ringed balls.

The enveloping layers built into the suit keep a firm check on his circulation -- the HUD would happily display the data if he could even string two thoughts -- and constantly constrict and massage his cum-heavy testes until he can think of nothing. Any drop in his heart rate produces a firm tightening around them until each ripe plum hums in tune to the pistons firing under the bike’s cover. Not that his heart rate has left an orgasmic plateau.

All he knows is the _Magna_ stretching his unresisting hole. Not a pucker anymore, not after two hours of being mounted atop the largest creation he ever put on a hydraulic arm to fuck himself. The sex machine doesn’t measure up to this motorcycle mounted fuck, especially not with the shield tapping off the cylinder, which in turn upsets the sound.

Twelve cyan spheres fill him to the brim and bulge out from the underside of his shaft in a procession of fatter orbs. He has some pride under there, marvelling at his accomplishment as the topmost one keeps plumbing his gaping slit. Maybe the distance traveled covers no more than five millimeters but that subtle fuck has him boiling at Steve’s back rather than blowing his wad. Thanks to the immense spread knotting his cock, he can’t physically cum even if some managed to leak past the cock ring effect currently clamping his shaft.

“That’s it, baby, go ahead and scream,” Steve croons to him. “Let me hear you sing. Won’t upset me any.”

Under normal circumstances, Iron Man wouldn’t be caught dead on a vehicle unable to reach half his top speed. He much prefers a rusty trolley cart pushed across a freshly paved parking lot.

His voice rises up in crackling, broken warbles sandpapered to rough chords. The motorcycle goes onto the loose shoulder, bouncing hard over ruts and dips worn away. Steve keeps both hands firmly on the bars, fingers curled on the brake for the least sign of distress.

The drone escorts captures his unfailing smirk as Tony takes a pummeling onto his holes. His smoked out visor keeps him from viewing anything ahead, and for him, every impression comes as a shock on his overloaded system. Most of the rumbling concentrates on his exposed balls and his overstuffed perineum stretched to the maximum, the thin metal vault pressed along that front positively aquiver.

He wants no respite on his abused hole, and his balls are fit to burst.

“Friday,” says his boyfriend, audible through the HUD speakers, “blackout and play _Hole Breaker_.”

Tony whines in earnest as his screen cuts out with all data except the image that Steve queues up. They share an impressive database of porn ranging from vanilla cam vids to high production works bankrolled through shell accounts from Stark Technologies itself. But Steve has a few favourites that range from amateur to slick productions.

This one keeps Tony practically welded to the captain’s back, slumped over.

 

* * *

 

The first time he found the video, Tony jacked off six times in two days. Steve promptly removed it from his rotation, permitted only for their together time.

A bound man bent over in extravagant, baroque bondage displayed his pink rosette, a tiny whorl, to the camera. The scene focused entirely on that little, tight hole, almost virginal. A large finger spread lube around the edges and flirted with coating every crenellation while the camera adjusted its angle to capture the details in precise, close focus.

“Test Subject 352,” the soothing feminine narrator announces. “Observe the resting diameter and closure at one millimeter. Application of lubricant complete.”

He watches the gentle push on the tight hole, which barely parts at all to the direct assault on its heart.

“Protocol will commence with intense stimulation and biofeedback regimen to achieve maximum volume in Test Subject 352’s rectum,” she says.

His cock is twitching uncontrollably. Steve makes him watch the movie cuffed and mounted to a spreader bar or an open-seated chair, the better for a thin dildo to be mounted in his ass. They’ve said for months he will take the place of Test Subject 352, the young man introduced to multiple insertions until his hole is a gaping pink void around the four dildos of multiple colours left buzzing at maximum power.

He always cums like a horny teenager while the doctor works the second or third dildo in and the test subject moans and chokes on his cock gag. Tony wants to be that boy folded up and lewdly spread out, made to take bigger and thicker toys inserted up his ass.

Images flash and flicker across the screen as he watches the slow gaping of the rosebud, hearing the grunting and moaning and crying out of the subject. He shudders along with the violet wand teasing the rim with its crackling discharge and the first touch pinching the little portal shut around a thin probe.

Tony practically cries out in time to the young man being reamed and violated with perfect thoroughness, stuttering as the motorcycle roars underneath him.

“That’s it, baby, watch how well he stretches around that glass bulb. Should we get you one so you feel properly full?” Steve asks over the squelch of the first of plugs being presented, a large chunk of pear-shaped glass rounded off to lack any facet whatsoever.

His eyes are streaming as he watches the rosy pucker caving in eventually under the blunt glass tip. He loves the part when the test subject strains against his bonds, his dilating hole opening up wide like a portal opening to greet a visitor.

The beauty of the plug, it gives a bird’s eye view to the pink walls opening up and the stretching, elastic muscle. Even when the flat base sticks out, it forms an inviting window the the surrounding gape. That one is small, but they use bigger versions in the later training films, moving up to a colossus that makes him whimper even thinking about it.

Tony owns that plug and knows the cold resilience of the glass, the immense weight once fully embedded and stretching him. Even though the plumb-bob is so much smaller than his current toy, he imagines that filling him. _Fuck, it’d probably be swallowed up in my hole right now_.

Glass has the advantage of density, holding open inner passages wide. He loves that vulnerability and jams himself down, suffering the burning hum on his stuffed sphincter and the squeeze around his balls tightens again until he barely breathes. His hole tries to twitch around the _Magna_ and fails, the deep-seated shaft robbing him of volition.

They’re barely into the movie and twenty-five minutes of blissful ecstasy lie ahead for him and the beautiful sight of the man’s ass being stretched out by broad fingers he imagines are Steve’s and his own. _Yeah, get that tight ass into a fuck hole. He’s gotta take more, train that hole to get wider. That’s not enough, he needs a fat toy that breaks him open._

He doesn’t know he’s talking and Steve hears -- and records -- every word.

* * *

 

The careening path finally loops back through the quieter north shore of Long Island, and Steve accelerates past traffic curious about the man in the red suit snug against him. A few stunned kids stare out through smoked glass at them, unaware that Tony hugs him so tight because he has lost all sense of himself.

He babbles his pleas in half-coherent snatches, the constant accompaniment in Steve’s ear begging as the film plays on.

“Please, Steve, yeah, I gotta have a bigger cock. I’m ready for a bigger cock in my ass, I need you to see…” 

He smiles as the limited grinding against the seat sends a counter thrum through the motorcycle, evidence for Tony’s limited effects to press down to the base of the invader violating his rectum and stretching him wide. Even with all that silicone packed in, he feels thin and pulled tight over the toy instead of comfortably taking the conceivably largest thing he’s ever encountered.

Two thumbs hook into the subject’s puffy anus and stretch open the oval ring. Far from the virginal furl, the widened gape pouts with a pink core darkening to red. Tony chokes as the beads and the vibrations combine to assault his prostate together, milking out another dry orgasm, one of countless numbers so far.

“I’m cumm-- ungh-- cumming, cumming,” he chatters through his teeth. Not biting his tongue is a miracle. Steve swerves gentle s-curves until the announcement becomes a hollow gurgling wail. Another orgasm without release. He does not really get to cum. 

“How’s that, baby? Harder?”

Tony shrieks as the deep toy rolls around deep inside his core, pressing on places that unlock further depravity. “Uh-huh, ha-ha… Hard, hard, fuck that hole open.”

“Don’t you worry, we’re gonna pry you open, Tony.”  
  
“Gape me, gape me,” he repeats, chanting the same instructions spoken on the video. The training has taken deep that he wants to be positively wrecked.

“Gaping for days.”

Another bump launches him up a few inches and lands him hard. He squeals when the beads shunt as deep as they can go, the big sound rolling back and forth inside his urethra. Lube mists out from the implanted distributors in the _Mark 81,_ ensuring he stays almost frictionless and fuckable.

“Your training’s going well,” Steve purrs. “I’m going to need a special plug to keep you filled up.”

Tony snatches for figments of thought. They have the first of the larger dildos fed into the stretched pucker, screwed in on the screen while he corkscrews his hips to simulate the churning sensation. Unlike the man he watches, his own hole gives no resistance; the toy nudges up against his rim again and again, blowing out the center.

“I wanna be hole spanked,” he babbles on his way to another orgasm. “Nng, and my balls. Spank me, Stevie, spank me.”

“Close you up?”

“Ugh!” The shrill becomes a staccato grunt as Tony imagines that immense toy swallowed up by his puffy hole tightened into a knot, hiding the huge weight hollowing out his tummy, and he stiffens hard.  
  
“You wanna get your anus spanked shut, slut? I’m going to do it if you want it,” Steve purrs.

 _Yes, yes he wants that._ He wants to explode from the pressure tension even as the bike seems to slow and the world tilts.

“Yeah, I want your cum and toys stuffed up my ass. I want a puffy little anus like a virgin, you gotta wreck it and make it tight again,” he thrusts into the locked machine, desperate for any release. “Stuff my hole so good, anything, I’ll be good and take it. Stevie, make me take it.” Even the sights and sounds on his screen barely catch Tony’s attention, locked up in his own degenerate fantasy.

A soft burr thickened by lust fills his ear. “You gonna take whatever you’re given, Tony?”

The pause lasts a second and the broken sigh gives up everything. “Yes.”

“I’m gonna break your hole, baby.”

“Uh-huh!” The last illusions about his control goes pouring out as his cock feels huge, the center of his work the narrow strip of muscles separating his bound testes from the massaged, vibrating edge of his stretched pucker.

“You like that? You sure?”

“Spank my hole!” Tony cries out. “Yeah, red and puffy, _please_.”

They reach the drive to the house, rolling up the long horseshoe as gravel and stone crunches under the Victory’s tires. While they go, the floating drone follows them, its rotors stirring softly in the night air.

Every profane word out his mouth carries to Steve. Tony is desperate and hot, broken down physically by the unfulfilled lust of the last hours. He hardly protests when Steve disengages his glove bonds, his fingers almost numb from prickly lust. He sits stiff and tall in place, marinating in his own urgent desire to get off, denied again and again.

An orgasm by prostate massage and being so thoroughly plugged isn’t the same.

 

* * *

 

“Hold on there,” Steve whispers his encouragement, supporting the bike as a shadowy figure descends the stairs and closes the distance.

Nightfall cherishes Sam Wilson, carrying a bag over his shoulder and a wide grin on his face.

“All’s ready when you are,” he says.

“You got him on tape?”

“Recorded digitally, Steve. No one uses tape now."   
  
Tony can’t hear, and only the muffled cries of protest for being at rest leak through the sealed helmet.

They both admire the view, the drone faithfully hovering a short distance away. Out of its range of vision, Sam produces a small metal case, flipped open to show the slender vials within. “I brought the goods. You’re _sure_ he’s okay with this?”

“You heard him begging for it.” Steve rests an elbow on the handlebars.

Licking his lips, Sam tears the sterile foil seal from the lid of one and hands over the case. “Don’t let the bike wobble while I do this. Should we get him inside?”

The blond shakes his head. “It needs some time to work and he needs to concentrate a little better. This will help.”

“Got it.”

“Friday, remove segment five,” Steve repeats quietly into the microphone. The suit AI complies immediately, and the nanotech peels back in a shimmering curtain of receding crimson and silver like so much stardust. The cylindrical fixture retreats into the body of the _Mark 81_ to expose Tony’s fat dick, dark and red.

Sam practically swallows his tongue. He glances at the blond, who offers that indulgent smile and gives a short nod.

“He’s beautiful like this.”

“Horny as hell, too, so don’t tease him too much.”

“Steve,” he begins, thrusting a thin barb into the serum contained in the jar. “I hope you know how much I care about you. You and him. Thank you for trusting me enough for this…. This moment, I guess.”

An approving smile widens. “There isn’t anyone else I’d want to be involved right now.”

Sam gestures. “You sure you want me to do the honours?”

“Certainly do. And use two, just to be sure, if it’s safe.” Steve turns to kiss the helmet, though Tony barely responds while his dick stands at full attention. He gently reaches down and rubs his thumb over the prominent beads.

Going to one knee, the veteran pilot licks his lips and cups one of Tony’s round balls. “I can’t wait to share this.”

“He can’t either.”

 

* * *

 

Tony shivers in the cold; his cock aches and _hurts_ in the best of ways. They must still be outside as the suit suddenly shifts to admit the cool slap of the air.

He can hardly form words when a finger slides up and down the shaft, his breath trapped deep in his throat. The efforts to make a noise are impossible to manage around the gagged pleasure overwhelming him. It’s been hours since he felt a warm hand on that fat, throbbing length and the phantom memories are nothing to the touch of warm skin.

Steve has him in hand, cupping him, and he thrusts himself into the retreating fingers looped around him. The light smack on the sound plugging his urethra distracts him from the prick -- _pinch_ , fuck, _sting so tight and hot_ \-- around his balls.

He shudders at the spreading heat that radiates out from the impact point, unable to name it. Only that heavy weight in his balls becoming warm and immense, commanding every scrap of tenuous attention. Unbearably sensitive, he groans for the tension building in the tightness of his sack.

"They're getting big. You feeling that yet?”

Steve. Bound and blind, he nods, aroused and afraid. _What has Steve done?_ It feels so good and alien, the lead weights of his balls pulled down to the seat. Maybe dragging the ground. 

“I'm gonna take you inside. I need you to walk, baby.”

He isn't sure he can stay upright but Steve needs him to try, and he will. He barely notices the next sting and the gravitational pull of the injection, the serum taken into his skin and swelling out his fat testes into round globes. He is still blind behind the visor and he only knows what is bound to his cock when Steve pulls on the leash strapped to his cock ring.

The drone snaps shots of him getting off the bike and shuffling after Steve, the tugs on the leash pulling his big dick straight out. Sam follows behind wordlessly as they head slowly for the headquarters, admiring how the _Magna_ barely jostles around in Tony's ass.

Tony grunts at every step, gravity fucking him more and all he wants is to be used and fucked, stretched on camera to watch again and again with Steve balls deep in his ass. He wants to be a good student. He wants to be trained.


	7. Filled Past Capacity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony wants it all. His ambitions are grandiose, and then again, so is Steve's fist. Sam is there to make sure he takes it.

Everything aches in the hottest way, that kind of mad clarity brought on by manic heights of rapture and the confessional booth.

 _Maybe._ Tony isn’t a Catholic and, even if he were, the sins on his soul would take a marathon session over weeks to pour out to a dried up stick of a priest in his black cassock shifting around uncomfortably on a hard pew. But he imagines confession to a true believer feels like this sublime state of bliss, and he is strangely weightless, stripped of weighty cares.

He hasn’t felt this way in ages, for nearly as long as he can remember. The highs he chased at the bottom of a bottle during binges in clubs full of beautiful, artificial women and perfectly groomed men feel a pale reflection to the luminous, extended lightness of being wrapped around him now.

Pain is a manageable old friend, held at arm’s length. Discomfort, really, occasionally rouses itself through the velvety sea of bliss clotting his senses. The weight dragging on his tender rim distracts him as he slowly climbs stairs, immense gravity dragging him back and forth in the powerful tides filling his core and withdrawing a little.

He barely remembers how the knot ended up inflated inside his rectum; the eye-watering pressure remains but the once tight walls conform to the intrusion.

Small shifts steal his breath and if not for supporting hands under his stiff arms, he might fall. Two men guide him into the lit building from the velvety night, patiently waiting for him to get his balance or cease whimpering for the endless pummeling of his swollen prostate. His thick cock glows a deep shade matching the _Mark 81’s_ brilliant carmine finish, and drips despite the sound anchored into place.

Nothing gives him relief from the burning heat spread throughout his groin, but he bites his lip and rolls his eyes back when the smaller of the two -- dark-skinned, warmest smile, by the smaller fingers, has to _Sam_ \-- strokes the rippling beads shunted deep in his urethral canal from the outside. His knees want to go weak but the _Mark 81_ locks up his joints so he has no choice but to feel the fat aquamarine bead bulge his cum-slit and disappear down when Sam’s fingertip forces the one rebellious sphere down.

He grunts like the pleasure slave he is right now, and obediently thrusts his hips as the aphrodisiac in his veins leaves him hazy and desperate for touch of any kind. He’s never wanted someone’s fingers on him as badly as he does now.

The sound fucks him slow and deep, wrecking his coherent thoughts. He knows only the pressure as the beads slide out, cresting up against the fingertip that shoves them back in.

Feathery caresses push against his cum-slit and delve inside. Sam’s finger inside him, barely, must be somehow in the loop keeping the sound from vanishing into him. The lowest beads stuffed through some deep tube  again and he pants in huffing breaths.

“Uh, good, s’good, fuck. Stuff me, yeah, stuff my cock. St-steve,” he chants around the thickening curling of his tongue to his palate.

Sam and Steve tenderly watch his cock try to squirt out the beaded sound, and they invariably thrust it back into place so the lowest sphere knocks against his prostate to keep the growing load trapped back.

He closes his eyes and speaks in tongues, encouraging that deep fuck that travels up and down his swollen, ringed cock.

* * *

 

“Look at that, he’s leaking everywhere,” Steve says, an approving nod as they watch the clear precum slick the sound and bubble over.

“Even with the ring and the suit binding his balls! Look at it all. So much, it’s an impressive amount.”

  
Sam’s fingers glisten with the wetness and he lifts his hand, examining the viscous consistency on the tips. Spreading apart the strands reveals their tactile strength.

The blond watches more of the beads slide out through the gaping little slit, pushed by the gentle pressure from Tony’s bloated balls. “Impressive, isn’t it? Ever since he got his hands on the Chitauri artifact, he’s been trying to replicate the same volumes he pumped out.”

“This is his formula?” Sam sucks on his fingertips, savouring the salty tang that coats his tongue.

“No. Something heavily modified.”

“Bet he’d give his left arm to know the secret.”

Steve watches as the slickness vanishes, each long finger pulled clean through full lips. He is painfully hard himself, another side benefit of watching Tony pumping his hips in futility for the most intimate violation of the smallest hole.

“Stark started down the right path but I needed to bring in the big guns to get him producing this much.”

A gleam in warm chocolate brown eyes only brightens. Sam asks, “How did you manage to get Banner on board? I figured he would either be the first in line for this sight or throwing you out the window for even asking.”

“Tony’s the test subject.”

Steve lowers his hand to jerk lightly on the lead, pulling out the scientist’s stuffed cock, forcing it to stand at a right angle to his metal-bound body like a red arrow shot at the sun. “Banner monitors all the protocols through FRIDAY for absolute safe parameters and formulates everything for him. Gradually he’s been able to see results and we keep pushing new scientific frontiers.”

Sam shakes his head, and glances through the hallway. Not a hint of motion other than them, privacy is a prize to be cherished. The drone quietly maneuvers behind him, capturing the defilement without opinion. Its lenses gleam while focused on Tony in all his degenerate glory.

“Hard to believe he’ll make it through a milking, Cap.” He almost sighs.

“You think I should modify the playbook?”

“I’m saying you might want to mix things up a bit to get the ideal results.”

“I’ve always trusted your judgment.”

“Besides, you can’t tell me Doctor Banner doesn’t want to see the results of him begging to wreck his ass.”

“I’m practically counting on it.”

The warmth of Sam’s grin goes unnoticed by the shuddering man locked into the armour, and the responding look of thoughtful speculation thrown back by Captain Rogers.

A sharp spank to Tony’s massively swollen balls jiggles them inside their protective cocoon of armour. That hot sting produces another stream oozing up around the sound, unable to push it further than the ring binding it in place.

“You ever think of caging him with that in?” asks Sam.

“All the time. But not until he gets plumbed to the right gauge and begs for it.” Steve’s tone bodes well for them tonight, though less for the man making a puddle on the floor. Drops of his precum already splatter on the polished floorboards to mark wherever he goes.

* * *

 

Waiting is torture in the sweetest way. The injections taking up from his balls thread through his bloodstream and smear sensations lazily across the canvas of his body. Right now he can barely breathe thanks to the pull on his fat nipples, the way they chafe up against his chest plate making him clench down.

The immense toy bulges inside him, dragging on the rim of his abused hole. He can’t possibly push it out, but he can subject himself to being stuffed.

A few dizzy thoughts spin around at the thought of Steve spanking and slapping his hole until it closes up around the toy, a puffy ring admitting the base to peek out. But no one gives him that, not yet.

The insistent pull on his leaden, thick erection ceases for a moment, replaced by encouraging strokes on his chest over the arc reactor governing the steady beat of his heart. Inside the helm, his voice is hot and strident in the unceasing moans, a chorus celebrating the goodness of the moment, the perfection of his body gone to warm wax poured into a mold.

He can’t catch his breath nor has he tried.

Steve must be murmuring something because FRIDAY engages _Hole Wrecker_ from a frozen frame. Tony barely notices the video still playing across the projection display inside his sealed helmet. The same bound young man takes an anal pounding from two thick dildos alternating strokes in his stuffed hole. Gloved hands angle down to display the lateral, choreographed strokes wrecking that once tight hole. Just a glimmer of precum shines on the actor’s cock, but it will become a torrent -- Tony remembers this dimly through his feverish need to be used and fucked.

“You still with me, Stark? Just a little further now.”

Walking is so hard, and he would double over but for the ramrod keeping him up, though his gait almost waddles from the knot rolling around on his prostate. He keeps leaking wetness and that is unbearably hot, a molten bead running the length of his stone-hard cock.

On screen, kind hands bring back a violet wand and rim the stretched pucker, forcing it to shrink down around the two big, buzzing toys held firmly in place.

He begs in a broken chorus.

“Yeah, tighten my fuck hole and gape it again.”  

“Greedy hole, Stark.”

He grinds his teeth at the tug pulling his cock firmly and nearly crashes into a wall. The tender guidance at his elbow sets him straight again, helping him forward. Even walking is an act of shame and degeneracy, everyone around seeing how hard he is. How much he craves this kind of pleasure and attention.

“Just you wait,” Steve purrs in his ear and cuts the feed, leaving him in a haze of gagged cries, articulate murmurs, and the hum of the wand sparking against the bulging rim on his screen.

This is heaven.

The _Mark 81_ performs beyond his wildest dreams to keep him safely in an orgasmic fugue, its background programming monitoring his bio signs within acceptable parameters. Not that he sees or knows any of this now, guided on by the tug on his cock. He knows only he feels sublime and loose-limbed, thrust through the first gate of overstimulation as the serum carried through his bloodstream takes effect.

* * *

 

The lion’s share of the work goes to the super soldier, for Steve can better manhandle Tony without risk of harming him. _Mark 81_ armour still has considerable weight and Tony walks like a drunken man, staggering in part thanks to the steady reaming he takes from the huge toy buried in his dilated ring.

Another chill takes him as the nanotech reassemble, peeling back to unveil his normally flat stomach. He takes such pride in his fit physique and his abdominal muscles -- product of hours of toning and lifting under Steve’s practiced eye -- displayed this way send a shudder through his pinned form.

His muscles wrap around the dildo and the round head, bigger than a fist, pushes out against his navel.

It takes Sam a moment to collect his jaw off the ground and he reaches out, his wrist intercepted and pushed down. Steve shakes his head.

Not that Tony sees any of this and has no idea they can watch the outsized cock dominating him every time he shuffles along. They walk him in a convoluted path just to see his cock slap up against his armour and the _Magna’s_ outline under his strained abs.

Steve and Sam guide him into the auxiliary lab. A place he keeps spotlessly clean, the lab is best described as spartan, secrets concealed behind its walls. They forego the bedrooms altogether. For one, this chamber lacks another flight of stairs or an elevator ride.  

Steady hands direct him to the center of the oblong room. He stands there and sways, subtly fucking the heavy toy, trying to get onto his toes so the _Magna_ pushes against his rim and the knot sits in a way that still stretches his walls. The armour keeps him mostly upright and stiff, refusing to yield, and he loves and hates it a little for binding him.

“Let’s get him ready,” Steve gestures at the wall. “Sam, suit up, would you?”

“About time you asked, Cap.”

Sam strips off his belt and his pants drop to the ground, boxers shoved down around his ankles. He steps out of the clothes and folds them into precise, orderly piles that would pass muster at the most demanding Fifth Avenue boutique. The drawers assaulted next procure a variety of cock rings in a box labeled _Durable Medical Goods - New Jersey_ , and he thumbs through them until locating a pliable red sort.

The nipple clamps hang neatly inside a panel secreted on the wall, and he selects a heavy chain pinned with alligator clamps on the end. They have a reassuring solidity to his palm. He looks back to catch Steve’s eye, finding the spreading tent in his pants and skimming up.

“Good man.”

“You bring out the best in us,” Sam shrugs his shoulder. “Pity I can’t get him to stiffen me up.”

“Doubt you’ve got a problem with that.” The easy exchange of harmless quips contrasts the desperate eagerness of Tony Stark, wrecked completely before they’ve even begun.

Sensors embedded in the ceiling travel the length of the cherry-red and gold armour, identifying the anchorage points and from there, it’s only a matter of time for the thin apparatus to unfold from pods anchored in a circle overhead.

Sam steps aside to give them room to perform their mechanical duets, circling rather like lions upon a wounded elephant.

“Where are we going to put him?” he asks, a quarter turn doing nothing to conceal his painful arousal.

Steve carefully measures the speed with which the hydraulic arms unfold, clamping onto Tony’s wrists and drawing them down, forcing him to bend a little. “Starting with him facedown.”

“Classic. Does it use a table or a chair?”

“Suspension.” The burr of lust carries through Steve’s voice as he raises his tone. “Begin _Protocol 336_ , FRIDAY.”

“I’ll spot him if you’ll help.” Silvery links rest on Sam’s outstretched palm, a beckon where the clamps wait.

No hesitation slow Steve’s footsteps as he rounds the whirling arms matching up the points of Tony’s armour as they begin their dance. He slows to take the snub-nosed clamps, steel shells with a wicked bite. “So brave. You might think about piercing these.”

A flick of his thumb strikes Sam’s cocoa nipple and the drop hardens up just like that. The pilot stills, assuming parade rest, hands behind his back and Steve loves him a little for it.

“Just like Hershey kisses,” he murmurs and bows his head to suckle one of the nubs into his mouth.

Sam raises his chin as not to look. His attention is fully forward on Tony, assuring no accidents happen on his watch. “They don’t melt.”

“I want to see them in nipple stretchers, Wilson. Next time you come.”

“That an order, sir?”

“Sure is.” He can feel the thrill of Sam’s heartbeat under his tongue and he pulls back to drag out the little point with his teeth, gratified by its ripening width.

Not the maximum length Sam can reach by any means, but the nipple already plumps out enough. He attaches the clamp after rubbing it along the elongated point he bites and draws out, fitting the serrated teeth snugly to the base.

Sam groans. “Yes, Captain.”

“Such a good look.” The heavy chain rests in a snaking line as Steve reaches out to pinch and twist the other nipple to hardness. It firms up fast while his wingman acts like nothing is happening, hands curled into fists.

He slaps the little bud about, spanking it with his fingertips and mashing his palm down atop the tip. The heavy clamp swings back and forth, smacking up against the heavy, dark cock standing at attention between Sam’s thighs.

Golden hair brushes the veteran’s chest and he swallows, unable to see how that talented mouth and teeth milk his plump nipple to crinkle, erect and hard. A dull burn already gather on the other, and he soon has a second piece of jewelry to adorn the first. The pinch hurts and he grits his jaw.

“Ride it out.” Seeing Sam properly clamped is important and Steve tugs on the chain, the spring-mounted clamps biting hard into those prominent nubs sticking out from their imprisonment.

“Good, sir?”  
  
Steve kisses and laps one of the buds; he can’t help himself. “Perfect. And Tony?”

“Plugged and suspended for milking, sir.” He breathes out and adds, a touch thickly, “No complications.”

“Good. Let’s go wreck him properly, soldier.”

* * *

 

The AI chimes and Tony cries out in a strangled groan as various connection points to the armour meld seamlessly and force him to stand with his legs spread wide, angled forward. With his arms out, he might look like a hang glider.

A perfect right-angle bend would be impossible given the dimensions and placement of the _Magna_ dildo rammed inside his rectum. He almost stretches out in flight, the widening angle leaving him helpless and dependent upon the machinery for support. They can more than manage his weight individually but he doesn’t remember this, so focused as he is on the weightless sensation bowing his back.

The gentle pressure thrusting down on his spine forces him to press his chest out, and the wide stance gives no defense for his hole. He shudders and feels the sensation of the dildo stretching in his rectum. He’s like a cock sheath for some beast violating his pucker.

If he starts to slide back and forth on it, he might explode. His balls churn with the thoughts. Steve can’t be thinking of making him pleasure slave to his own fucking machine, he _can’t._

Gently whirring parts push his knees further apart until the nanotech melts away, exposing his thighs. Reassembled tubes form a solid shaft between his knees, confusing him as he squeezes against his new spreader bar. That won’t leave anyone room to stand behind him.

His high nasal whine gets no response except from the hydraulic arms clamped firmly around him. His head hangs subtly lower than his ass, neck too weary to hold up his head. The helmet sealed and fused to the gorget only allows so much play and the blood runs to his head, giving him an even headier detachment from the world. He floats in arrested space, the HUD turning dark.

Until sparks explode in his vision.

The machines tug on his leashed balls and stretch the big orbs out, applying two fat silicone rings around them. Some intense weight pulls them forward and down, leaving his sack heavy as the swinging weights click together and stretch. He tries to ride out the pain spearing him in the gut but another prick jabbed into the crease behind his testicles blossoms a throbbing, red-hot firework.

It feels so good, giving him the wet sensation of his cum sloshing around, and he groans and arches his back as those wellsprings of fertility merge into a thrashing sea. Every time he moves, he feels the fluid rolling through him beneath the thick cock.

Cooling gel wisps over his own plugged cock and aims up to ghost along his bared chest. The mist lands lightly on his skin, bonding to any dirt or sweat and hardening into the very thinnest of shells. He shakes and trembles. This compound he devised himself and the effect acts something like mint oil, enhancing his overall tactile sensitivity. A stroke of genius to apply it to a cleaning product, he thought when he made it.

Now he can only think of his stinging nipples and his cock trying to contract from the cold biting in, but the shaft has no way to shrink.

He grunts in relief when the cuff around the base is released, but the feeling sweeps back in and he starts to shriek in shrill pleasure as the sound twirls around in his stuffed canal. Expert pressure on the tip moves at high speed to batter the already worn-out muscles, churning up his precum to a bubbling froth that has nowhere to go.

Every bead feels like an egg thrust into his cock, rolling croquet balls banging down the skinny passage into his prostate. The flexible sound drills him at high speed; it whines, pumping in a fine liquid solution that coats the emerging aquamarine bubbles one after the other. That, too, is meant to constrict his muscles against the slackness they show now.

The last pieces leave his buttocks exposed and he arches as soon as the wide palm of Steve Rogers claps down onto his upturned ass. The ripple jars him out of the red clouds of pleasure, the clap barely audible through his closed helm.

“Oh no no no fuck no,” he babbles to a muffled audience.

Not yet. He wanted his spanking, yes, but on his rebellious hole after a fuck, not like this. More claps arrest him, distributed across his cheeks and around to the underside.

Steve works him thoroughly over, forcing his skin to adopt a hot pink colour. The hydraulic arms hoist him off the ground to the point he no longer touches with his feet, his toes hanging in the air.

Both men have a perfect view of the way Tony’s wrecked hole stretches to proud proportions around the base of the dildo, and the spanking winks the grudgingly spread ring around the bulge. Neither can really see the knot, only watch as the terminal end sinks in and pushes out at a slow, rolling presence.

The acrylic cylinder comes next, an ingenious double-walled contraption with a secondary shell. Sam holds Tony’s head still and directed up to him in case the foggy eyeslits somehow went clear.

Tony grunts and opens his mouth, tonguing at his lips for something -- anything -- as the whirring in his cock suddenly stops. The sound pulled back at full size gives him twelve heart-stopping moments as each bead slips through his gaping cum slit. The last one vacates him and he cries out for the loss.

“Easy, Tony. Gotta have patience.” Sam strokes his jaw and chin through the metal, looking over his head.

Behind him, Steve keeps slapping his fingers around the stretched sphincter until it glows hot, angry red. His digits slide along the puffy crinkles of Tony’s perineum, pressing down to test how little elastic give there is.

The cylinder slides into place with some difficulty over Tony’s rigid cock and clamps down. Silicone ribs form a skin-tight seal that leaves his plum head sticking out from their carapace. He hangs helpless in space while similar bands snap onto his tiny nipples, tugging them down like teats as the bands are forced up.

 _Tighter. They’re gonna have to stretch. Those cuffs are so big_. Small nubs poke out, cherry red and fat, made to stand an inch from his chest wall. He is begging and pleading again, in the vain hopes someone is listening. They aren’t.

All his thoughts collapse inward on themselves thanks to the gravity of something big, so very big, kissing the tip of his dick. His mind flashes back to the writhing ultraviolet tendrils that hollowed out his cock -- yes, oh God thank you, _yes_ \-- in their devious intentions to pillage and ravage him. He can’t move a fraction to meet the smoothness stirring up his frothy slickness, and it takes its sweet time.

The suction, on the other hand, engorges his already thick cock to fill the tube, and the pumped out air forces him longer and wider.

“You still wanna be hung like a horse?” Steve murmurs from a distance, and easy for him to say because his cock is the size of a sequoia.

Tony’s garbled answer must be satisfying because another squeeze strains his girth against the bands. Vasodilators pumped into him from every direction allow that impossible enlargement, and after several thirsty slurps the machine has his cock bloated and filling the inner layer. Some kind of jellied sleeve settles in as he’s forced to wait for that aching pumping to continue in increments, forcing him to expand again and again.

The hard acrylic locks over his new ring, forming a perfectly tight seal. Sam admires the gargantuan proportions of Tony’s imprisoned cock hanging down, pulled at an angle in the smooth, clear shaft.

“I commend you for your aesthetic tastes, Cap, because this view is something.”

“Metal would keep us from watching,” Steve agrees, and he steps back. “All right, Friday. Start.”

AI-directed tubes straighten up as the outer shell latched onto Tony’s cock starts to vibrate. The is shell slumps down, rolling along his shaft in a slow pressurized wave. It squeezes him, and the retreating pull drags more blood up to his trapped flesh. It’s like being jacked off by a perfectly smooth throat with ring-like control of the muscles, gliding up and down.

At this point, Steve bows his head and pulls apart Tony’s buttocks, as if they were not already spread liberally by the dildo. His tongue runs around the puffy rim. No hope of clenching down to the feathery softness that teases him with light strokes, Tony quivers and twitches.

Seeing that, his hole ends up peeled open just a little further. Thumbs straighten out the natural curve of his stretched muscle, and once more it starts to burn a little. Steve’s tongue tip flirts along the toy, trying to wriggle its way in.

Tony groans and tries to toss his head, hell, even curl his fingers and he can’t do a damn thing. Nothing moves except as they want it to, and that tastes so sweet.

They hear him scream when the second tease of the milking tube slams into place. He takes the round knob with ease, and the straight rod plunges in. The sound is nothing at all like the tentacles, thin and writhing as they were. This is flexible but resilient, wedging open his urethra, and bottoms out somewhere around China.

It drills into him as the plastic shaft drags up, counterbalancing its thrust to stretch him out and deep to the to utmost. While his dick is strained by the implacable vacuum suction to make it grow wide and long like Steve’s, the sound plumbs him and blocks his copious cum. He can’t release no matter what.

Teeth on his buttock signal a love bite, and a hard spank to the fat end of the plug squeezes the knot right over his prostate. Everything pours out of him in a wheezy plume, and when the plug slides back, Steve spanks it back down again, his tongue battering the slack, wrecked portal.

Then the sound withdraws and repeats the process all over again, but he feels rather than hears the harmonic buzz. The damn thing discharges a small jolt into his cream-rich balls from the inside and he really starts to scream himself hoarse in a wrecked aria of excitement. Whatever sounds he thought he could make are nothing to that.

The rod expands and the knot ties its depth to him, allowing his stuffed cock to take a hammering fuck without every losing its new toy. The end protrudes, hollow to allow for some amount of his clear, copious wetness to leak out into the tube.

Lewd slurps accompany that as two more round cups curve over his balls and start to apply the same rapid humming harmonies. He twists and jerks uselessly on the immobile shaft in his ass, crying, sobbing at the intensity of the spanking around but not directly on his hole begins again. Steve pushes down to make him really feel that thick grapefruit bulging his rectum, and the vibrations travel along the bridge from side to side. His prostate feels like a bowl of Jell-O on a fault line.

He arches and tries to spill, but the milking continues, rippling up and down his cock. The steady dribble of fluid is sucked away, traveling down a clear tube into a canister. All he knows is that he is being forced to produce his precum by an unforgiving machine that will not tire nor stop even when the tenderness in his glans builds higher.

It keeps fucking him relentlessly and he knows nothing of the world except that hollow ball plunging in, spinning as it goes, punishing him for trying to clench. His muscles sting as they cling, and the duality of gripping it so tight and being gradually opened breaks some critical functioning higher thought process.

Two taps and the helmet comes away, revealing his empty eyes and mouth. A gag is in order because Tony can hardly be expected to control himself. Sam supplies that, two thin sticks handed to him by the tray of another machine arm. He selects the ring gag and has no trouble working that into Tony’s mouth.

A fumble and he straps it tight, forcing Tony’s teeth harmlessly out of the way. He pinches at the man’s lolling tongue and takes the skinny chopsticks, placing them on either side of the tip. They fit together at both sides with twisted rubber bands, giving a definite bite of pleasure.

Not that Stark would make much sense anyways, but he tries to retract his tongue, making piteous noises. “Shaa-- ugh. Ugh. Ugh!”

“That’s it, you suck me good while Steve gapes your hole.” Sam knows the words, has memorized every plea to heart. He slides into the sultry warmth of Tony’s mouth. Maybe he’s not as big as some -- not even Tony now, whose cock is a rigid pole being vigorously pumped and simultaneously stuffed as part of his milking process.

Tony manages to choke some nonsensical reply until he’s impaled on the fat dick that would give many women heart attacks and fantasies both. His mouth isn’t ready and his throat certainly isn’t, but Sam gives no quarter.

He plunges deep and stays there, relishing the way Tony drools and splutters. No need for much movement except to pull back to let the poor, overstimulated man breathe.

Fingers reach under to tweak one nipple and that surprisingly sets off a frantic flexing and series of ripples detonating from a central point. The choked cries rattling around Tony’s throat are directly connected to his nub being pulled and pinched.

“Cap,” he gasps.

  
“You doing okay?” Steve looks up from running lube over his hands.

“Tender nipples.”   
  
Steve nods. “Friday, give him extra stimulus there.”

She can always be relied on to answer immediately, and for that, both standing men are grateful. The AI asks, “Flogger or vibratory options, Captain Rogers?”

“Are both possible?”

“Of course, Captain. Allow me to configure the flogger precisely. I’ll use a variable pattern of force, with your approval.”

“Acknowledged.” Steve takes hold of the base of the _Magna_ plug and starts to pull. The immense built-up pressure refuses to give, seated tight and hard.

Sam’s cock flirts with the back of Tony’s throat, the plump head rolling around the stippled folds of the hard palate. He tries to suck, he really does, but he can’t close his lips and the knot sliding up against his abused anal ring has him spluttering and crying out.

The sweet, hot cock meat slides out of his mouth and Sam holds himself midway, rubbing the weeping tip all over his spread, round lips. Tony’s tongue flicks weakly under the stick gag, reaching for those pronounced veins.

His reward is a firm cock spank to his yawning mouth. His lips take thumping, solid strikes while the milking suction tube hammers his sound-pumped cock. At this point it doesn’t matter if Tony is hard or soft, his shaft spits wads of precum in a bubbling wave that keeps on cresting. He hangs slack with his eyes starting to water again.

His ass is blooming open, irrevocably widening. His hole has no strength left, its give pronounced. Still doesn’t mean the removal of the huge plug comes easy. Steve curls his fingers around the base, slippery tips fighting for purchase, planted around the ridged base. His arms flex as he lays his hand on Tony’s spanked, pink buttock. Hydraulic arms counter his push, arresting forward movement.

“Unh! _Shee_ \-- _Saaagh_ \-- Ugh!” Tony cries out their names, an insatiable slut as his world is tearing slowly apart. The burbling grows urgent and liquid.

Steve groans and hauls the plug out, the knot pressing against the dilated ring that resists only because the huge circumference resists. He could deflate the knot but doesn’t, screwing and twisting it around.

Tony hangs slack as he spreads, so impossibly stuffed, riding the cresting heat and plunging down.

“You’re gonna gape,” Steve purrs. “Let’s see how big you get.”

He nods, trying to lift his head, but Sam lines up his cock and slams into his mouth. His cheeks puff out around the ring gag as his broken sounds choke out. Sam starts thrusting in deep, pillaging his throat.

The vet leans over and reaches out to grab pink cheeks, spreading them wide. Metallic poles secured to the ceiling support Sam’s shoulder while he forces Tony to expose his red hole.

Steve licks the top of the rim and stuffs the enormous plug in deep again, spitting and lapping along the abused stretch. Tony flexes in a hopeless attempt to writhe as he can’t get enough air but he doesn’t care, the humming vibrations added to his nipples finally as the ring of egg vibratory snaps over his binders. The soft dusky nubs hum with the fat, cheap vibrators crowning him, and shoot pleasure right down to the rigid bar of his cock.

He’s not prepared for the splat of the cane across the tips of his dark nipples and he screams again. The coursing endorphins in his veins mix with the drug cocktails to transmute that hot sting into a simmering string of bubbles. He wants more, straining for the erratically timed spanking.

His throat closes around Sam’s cock and his ass weakly twinges around the _Magna_ , and Steve chooses his moment to squeeze the base and yank the plug out. The knot goes up against his puffy ring and spreads it, stretches it wide open, wider. _Wider_.

Oh. So. Slowly.

He’s screaming wider around Sam’s cock, getting heaving breaths to sluttishly egg them on. The only

The drone swivels up to a higher angle, watching the emerging toy like the breaching of a smooth-sided whale from the rosy deeps. It's glassy lens swivels and focuses, catching the slippery rim. Puffs of lubricant blow from the nozzle of a sprayer moving past, giving Tony’s hole special attention with a flavourless gleam.

His hole quakes and buckles, pulled out as the inflated knot wedges him open, so impossibly wide. Sam’s fingers grip and Steve hauls on the toy again, bit by bit, forcing the plug out.

The humming shields cup his balls and the weights sway, tugging his stretched sack down. The sound splats another shock into his system and he stings with the electric charge rolling, roaring around his nervous system. The waterfall streaming past the wide sound coats his cock and the suction of the tube pulls it all away.

Milked. Gaped. He knows they’re watching.

Sam bounces his hips off Tony’s spread mouth and he chokes all around that swollen cock meat acting as his gagging force. The angle forces a shallower attack because the man arches over him to punish his gaping ring by spreading it, and all at once, the wedged knot comes free.

_No no no no Steve oh fuck fuck fuck._

Tony cums for the first time that night, and somehow the machine knows, because the sound wedge was a the plumb ball at the base of his urethra and refuses to move. Waves besiege the dam and cannot slip past, his balls shocked again to force his body to blow out another load with nowhere to go.

Canes, thin and precise, whip over his soft nipples. He tightens up internally somewhere, the only muscles left that can be tight, to spurt again as the long, fat length of the _Magna_ uncoils from the hidden depths of his rectum and pulls, pulls, dragging out.

Steve suckles the point where his bound balls and perineum meet the gaping void to his soul, slathering his tongue in circles. Tony’s slack hole stays open as the bulbous head pops out, and he no longer feels the weight of a world nestled inside him, nothing at all.

Tears roll down his face unbidden. His cock drools and he feels teeth sink in, biting him, marking him as property of Captain America.

The milking machine slowly, methodically disassembles him. Vibrators torment his nipples. His cock, hugely oversensitive, takes another shock and the rippling heat of the knotting inside his stuffed shaft growing somehow imperceptibly wider.

His tongue hangs out, dripping saliva through the ring gag. Sam robs him of breath on that sweet chocolate dick plugging his throat. It’s a poor supplement for the void in his blown ring.

Steve watches the futile tremor and runs his thumbs around the inner curves of the hole, slippery with lube. Another few pumps he delivers himself, finally removing the lid and pouring the remainder of the liquid straight inside. It pools atop the glistening wetness pumped out through the core of the _Magna_ from the depleted reservoir, one of the plug’s great virtues.

The boundaries man doesn’t so much as twitch.

“Look at his prostate,” Sam murmurs, unable to much see by the angle.

“Proves Banner’s serum works.”   
  
“Is it big?”

“Let’s just say I’m gonna have to jack him off by his prostate.”

Sam’s eyes glaze over and he groans, leisurely corkscrewing his narrow hips to feel every part of that hot, wet mouth engulfing him. A sensation Steve appreciates himself but Tony is vacant and hanging in place. Not for long.

“Big enough to get your hand around?” the pilot asks vaguely.

“Swollen up to push my palm into,” Steve answers. He pries open the blown hole wider with his fingers, tucking them in past the rim and stretching the slack muscle even further.

Tony shudders like he’s connected to a bare wire, and in some ways, he might be, but the incoherent waves of pleasure have pummeled into submission like nothing else.

The first two fingers slip inside him effortlessly and the blond captain rubs inside to feel the slick velvet of that cavernous pinkness. Sam’s dark fingers stretch wide along the divide of Tony’s buttocks, easily holding them apart.

The third finger gets Tony’s notice, partly because the screwing movement paints the cool slickness everywhere. His anal ring is still soft and pliable around Steve’s fingers and he takes the reaming almost quietly, deprived of oxygen and thought past recognizing the sensations. Sam keeps a good pull on his hole, kneading and rubbing, but he isn’t doing much except to help Steve see.

His balls and nipples both feel huge and swollen, and the slightest movement has him whining -- keening, really -- for more and less at once. The lower hum around his balls only serves to churn up the thick load and trail down the weights, making the leaden drops clack together. Tony would give anything to get someone sucking them instead, but he has to make do with the massaging soft gel.

His nips are dark and plum red from the caning and the vibrations, and the trade between the two would be wonderful. Not a chance, though, and nothing is really his choice anymore.

Despite his slackness, four fingers barely fill his space -- Steve has such big hands compared to other men, and he’s twisting his arm just to make them all fit together. Pressed into a cone, he makes it up to his knuckles before the tight fit of the muscle kisses the firm uplift.

He tries to wedge his thumb in but the unruly hole disobeys him, like it has any say. Sam frowns and leans over, pulling more of his cock free, but sufficient to work on the most critical and difficult of maneuvers. The steady thump of Steve’s hand up to the widening flare above his thumb.

“Open, Tony.”

Thrusting gains depth and crushes those large digits into a narrow shape, and he wrings out Tony’s abused pucker. The slow rotations guarantee the caresses of his prostate and specifically pushing down, squeezing out the nodule and the dense nerves against the fat rounded bulb of the sound.

He makes the most beautiful sounds to both of them, ruined mewls all he can manage when his vocal chords give out. Steve treats his rectum reverently and kneads it, rolling and stretching as his resistant pucker clings to him.

Sam pulls out of his mouth and crouches down, grabbing one of the canes. The buzzing ring of egg vibrators snaps off to a fumbling pull, and Tony jerks inside his bondage. Not even an inch of give anywhere, but his soft walls milk at Steve’s fingers as though the digits can offer up a gush of hot semen to coat his already sloppy, slick back passage with.

“Hold on,” the pilot calls hoarsely to the blond. Then he ducks underneath the suspended playboy, and starts to suck on the exposed, puffy crown of Tony’s nipple. Sam makes short work of sucking it wholly into his mouth, even the band slick with the salt-sweet taste.

Tony finds some means to bear down and his hole convulses weakly around the fingers plowing into him, excavating a wider hollow. Hurts, no way around the fact he aches in so many ways, spreading apart at the seams to reveal the firelight glow of the arc reactor within. That’s all he is, sparks of light wobbling around an unstable gravitational core, every perturbation caused by the massive star’s gravity throwing him off.

Teeth tug on his nub and the violent gush of precum fills up the tube, gives more to the acrylic cylinder than even the professional-grade compressor and engine can deal with. Sloshing chokes the plastic tubing drinking his essence, pulling it from him in a wave and another spray soon follows, and another.

“Keep doing that,” he hears Steve bark, and the pain glows steadily hotter like a light bulb warming up after long disuse. Something flickers and his muscles give inwards, buckling bit by bit, the steady push turning into rapid little jabs and twists.

Sam reaches further down and his clever fingers stroke that abandoned spot behind his vibration-stricken balls, the thumb-print divot of such profound sensitivity. Playful nails drag across the crease and he begins to exhale in high-pressure squeals, run ragged by the ticklish caresses as Steve finally begins the last assault on his buckling anal ring.

“Take my fist, Tony.”

He wants that fist so bad, so much. The milking has his eyes unfocused and rolled back, and everything in his world rotates around the stuttering halt of the widest part of Steve’s hand. Never, never has he taken more than six fingers, his and Steve’s, dipping in and out like hummingbirds sampling nectar.

His hole won’t budge.

Despairing, he splutters and drops his head.

“Come on, Stark. Let him in,” Sam croons so gently as he keeps Tony open, puffy rim swollen all the more, welcomed by a grip that invites, rather than resents intrusion.

Steve pulls back and pushes forward, using him like a sheath for his fingers, and adds more cool lube but that simply won’t do the trick. Once more those five thick digits plow in, forcing him to spread to the utmost and he just can’t do it, he can’t, not in the blurring vibrations poured into his body like a living tuning fork for their depraved desires.

He weeps. He wants that hand so bad, he needs his boyfriend’s fist pummeling his prostate and gaping him and --

The captain’s command is adamant. “I’m gonna have you on my wrist, Stark. Training your hole. This is just way you want it, isn't it?”

Tony bobs his head in frantic agreement, the only thing he’s got left under his own control. As if there was any choice. Brought this far, how much further can he possibly go?

The world explodes into sparkling embers when fingers press back, and he lurches in his bondage to the thrust of Steve’s arm. Something spreads and the tense resistance snaps. Sam holds his gaping hole open as the widest part of that hand slides through the widened aperture, and it’s done, _he’s in_ , and closing up around the slick-smooth curve of his boyfriend’s wristbone.

Over his straining body, the two men share a look of replete wonder and hazy, feline satisfaction.

"You took it. Oh fuck, that's so hot."

Smiling, the blond kisses the scarlet rim of the pummeled ring. "You'll need to get the crops and toys. You heard him earlier. He wants to close up tight."

" _Seeesh_ ," Tony wails, keens really, around his gag, the damnable bamboo sticks welded to the tip of his tongue allowing nothing more articulate. It's the only word left to him as the manic cries get more frantic even without anyone moving, and the final nail is in, that enormity pushing forward and opening him up like a flower to the sun.

“Wreck him, Cap.”

“With pleasure,” Steve purrs as he balls his fingers into a fist.

The alpine knobs of his knuckles massage deep into the pounded depths of that glorious upturned ass, and he luxuriates in applying pressure right atop the swollen prostate. Almost immediately, a thick spurt of cum pours out from Tony's cock around the sound. No longer can his ring and silicone cage withhold anything as he's truly, finally, forcibly milked -- made to give up his cum, stuttering and splashing out into the relentlessly slurping tube. Cumslut. He's a cumslut right and proper, taking that fist.

When the revelation hits, the freight train barrels over him and he can do nothing but ride the muscular arm burrowing deeper as his fake plug.

Tony faints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long chapter, a really long one. But hey, a girl loves her smut when Tony's involved. Thank you for all the tantalizing suggestions! As ever, I adore your comments and feedback, so never hesitate to share your thoughts.


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